


One Call Away

by nutriscii



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: (so much of it), Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Domesticity, Eliott is taming the beast, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Lucas is a pocket-sized devil and a spikey asshole, M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Pining, Unrequited Love, with a splash of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24005548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutriscii/pseuds/nutriscii
Summary: There should be a special place in hell, for people like Lucas Lallemant. Not so much because Eliott believes in those things, but just for him, he might make an exception. You think he’s being dramatic? Try living next to this animal for a week, see how that goes.OR. An enemies to friends to lovers AU
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 218
Kudos: 683





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi there 💞 i'm super excited to share this new story. It's mostly written, i'm nearing the 3/4 so updates should come on the regular. I hope everything's okay for you all and that you'll find a way to enjoy this as much as me 🥰💕 
> 
> (as always a special thank you to Snezhi, even if today she hates me a little bit 🤪💕)

**DIMANCHE, 21:44**

There should be a special place in hell, for people like Lucas Lallemant.

Not so much because Eliott _believes_ in those things, but just for him, he might make an exception.

After all there’s something a tiny bit comforting, in knowing that he might get punished for being the loud motherfucker that he is, and since apparently calling the cops for every slammed door or stomping feet is a ‘waste of time and public resources’, believing in an afterlife spent in the throes of everlasting torture might well and truly be the only revenge he could ever be entitled to ask for.

You think he’s being dramatic?

Try living next to this animal for a week, see how that goes.

They live in an old building, to begin with. The kind that goes all the way back to the 50s, with the soundproofing that comes with it. Every single pipe in the walls is older than Eliott’s parents, and the tiniest kick in a space-heater resonates three floors away. And you know what the worst part is? He’s lived in Paris _all_ his life. Tiny apartments, old buildings, walls so thin that you can easily make out a conversation happening next door, people coming and going in the hallway, he’s never known anything else. So it’s safe to say that he thought he was prepared.

And then Lucas Lallemant moved next door.

Obviously, it took him a total of 0.2s to prove him wrong.

For the past eight months (which feels more like an entire decade, if you ask him), it’s been doors slamming shut, bottles clinking together, loud friends flocking in, and he might have been a lot more indulgent if it hadn’t been for the boyfriend, whose only accomplishment had been to prove that his neighbor could well and truly not do _a single thing_ quietly.

So yes. That’s why he’s standing there, fidgeting on his neighbor’s doorstep.

On one hand, he’s spent the weekend at a music festival with Idriss and Sofiane, drinking warm beer and spending entirely too much time up on his two legs. All he wants at the moment is to crawl into his shoebox of an apartment and flop down onto his bed. But on the other hand, he was casually walking past his dumbass of a neighbor’s door when there was this sharp thud, an even louder bang, and what seemed like an hour worth of glass shattering on the floor.

And ever since, well, it’s been really silent.

Which doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the situation here.

Not a rattle, not a shuffle, not even the sound of someone sweeping glass shards off the ground. Technically it’s not so bad, from an outside point of view. He just dealt with a near-death experience a second ago, and he’s not sure his heart has started beating again just yet, so he _can_ use the extra fifteen seconds to make sure his soul hasn’t left his body already, before his neighbor starts doing something stupid that will inevitably make him want to strangle him all over again. But the thing is, his parents always told him to be a gentleman with his neighbors. That he should be the kind of guy to knock on the door and ask if things are okay. Obviously they had the ninety-year-old-lady-with-a-walker scenario in mind. Not the 5’-something-pain-in-the-ass who plays Fifa at 3 in the fucking morning and who seems to have a thing for doing it in the shower. 

_I’m going to regret this_ , he thinks with a sigh to himself and a lingering glance to his front door, only a few meters away. He gives a tentative knock on his neighbor’s door, then a firmer one.

“Everything okay in here?” he calls out, still on the lookout for any sound.

“Fucking awesome,” someone eventually yells from the other side, and _nope,_ Eliott decides.

He did it, he made his parents proud, he was a gentleman for the five seconds requested from him by social expectations, it’s more than enough. “Whatever,” he mumbles, already fishing in his pocket for his keys.

Eliott takes a step back from the doorstep, keys jingling in the silent hallway, and he _almost_ doesn’t hear it. Almost. But not quite. He’s been too responsible at the festival, he didn’t stand as close from the stage as he used to, because he’s a _grown ass man_ who has to go to work tomorrow morning, and so his hearing is fine enough to be able to make up a hiss from the other side of the door, and a few more grunts, amidst the crunching sound of glass shards on the ground.

 _I’m so regretting this_ , he groans inwardly as he spins around to face the door again.

Instead of knocking, he pulls at the handle this time. It doesn’t even come as a surprise that it’s not locked — not really. He’s already stepping in, and since they essentially live in goddamn rabbit hutches, it’s enough for him to see most of the flat by simply standing in the doorframe. His lovely asshole of a neighbor is sitting flat on the floor in the kitchen corner, in a mess of broken glass and twisted limbs and-

Hold on. Yes, a crutch.

“Fucking shit, who told you to come in?”, Lallemant snaps, nearly seething, as he shoots him a death-glare.

It’s not half as impressive as he probably thinks it is, though, for many reasons that include him apparently struggling with basic coordination. There’s a cast on his leg, that goes from his left foot to his knee, and call him crazy but Eliott doesn’t remember hearing crutches before, so when did _that_ happen?

“What’s going on?” he frowns, ignoring the polite greeting. Backpack sliding off his shoulder, he lets it drop to the ground in the entrance before taking a few steps closer.

“I tried juggling,” Lallemant bites back darkly, slowly trying to maneuver himself in a sitting position without making an even bigger mess. “What do you _think_?”

 _I think you’re an asshole_ , he almost says, but he doesn’t even have the time to, before a droplet of blood makes its way down his neighbor’s upper lip. “You’re bleeding,” he observes bluntly. He tiptoes his way around the broken shards while the guy curses, hand flying to his face.

Eliott grabs a paper towel from the roll sitting next to the microwave and hands it to him, doing his best to look as unimpressed as he feels by the sharp look Lallemant gives in return.

He grumbles something under his breath, then starts to wipe his face with it.

“Okay so I’ll ask again,” Eliott says, quirking a brow, “what the fuck is going on?”

It’s not rocket science to make out most of the situation, if he’s being honest. There’s a cabinet above the kitchen sink, with the door hanging wide-open. His guess is that his neighbor must have tried to reach for something, a glass or a plate, then he slipped and probably grabbed the plate rack that was probably sitting on the counter in his fall.

Really, not rocket science.

But it doesn’t explain the broken leg, as far as he’s concerned.

His neighbor lets out a bitter snort. “Do you want the short or the long answer?” he snickers humorlessly, still dabbing his bleeding nose. “Someone stole my motorcycle, so I had to take the bus, but then there was the strike,” he starts rambling before Eliott can even reply, “and then I got told off for being consistently late, and now they think I don’t give a shit because I just got promoted to fucking floor manager. Then I tried to get some stuff back from my ex, but I found out he threw it all away, and the water is acting all fucking weird and the landlord doesn’t give a shit, and I splashed myself with fucking boiling oil at work, _and I was so fucking done with the universe_ , so my friends decided to play football to blow off some steam, but I fucking slipped and one of my friends fell on me and some fucking bone snapped, and now I tried to grab a fucking glass to get some fucking water but the fucking crutch fucking gave out and I fucking fell and now it fucking hurts and I’m so fucking done and-”

“Your head,” Eliott tuts, interrupting his rambling, and there’s a split-second of silence and interrogative eyes before he gestures for him to tilt his head back. Interestingly enough, his neighbor complies without a snappy comeback, and Eliott takes this as an opportunity to move the situation a bit. There’s obviously a _lot_ to unpack and he did not sign up for a therapy session at nearly 22h. “Let’s get you up,” he says, crouching down. He doesn’t mean for the teacher voice to sneak in but it does anyway.

Which is probably fitting, considering he’s talking to a man-child.

He gets a crutch (where is even the other one?) and a cooking pan out of the way, and when he slides his arms around Lallemant’s waist to lift him up, he nearly feels like he’s hugging a ticking-bomb just about to blow-up right in his face. “Careful, there’s glass everywhere,” Eliott reminds, as his neighbor struggles to find his balance and ends up hopping a little on the spot.

“No shit,” he grits out in a grumble, gripping the edge of the sink with the hand that isn’t busy forgetting the blood running down his nose. His whole face is smudged with red and he even managed to smear some right below his ear.

 _Unbelievable._ Eliott sighs and grabs the crutch from the ground. He hands it over, and together they maneuver among the glistening shards to make it to the couch. He too had one (a couch, not a crutch), when he first moved in in his very own 19m²-kingdom next door. He thought he could survive easily with a pull-out couch, because he intended to have friends over as much as possible and it was just easier to have a couch right ? — but then he graduated, and he passed his exam, and he became a teacher, and before he knew it, he was spending seven hours a day with middle-schoolers and his nights with headaches.

There’s so much he’s willing to make do with for his best friends, but selling his couch and buying a real bed was the best decision he’d ever made.

Lucas drops himself on his couch with a humph.

“Your head,” Eliott repeats with an eyeroll, leaning the crutch against the couch. Lucas groans and tilts his head back, resting it on the backrest, while Eliott moves back to the tiny kitchen space.

“What are you doing?”, his neighbor’s voice asks when he opens the cabinet under the sink to find a trash bag.

“I’m building a snowman, don’t you see?”, he retorts snappily, as he crouches down and starts carefully picking up the pieces of glass on the ground. There are plates and bowls and cooking pans there — he wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a week worth of dishwashing right there. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

Eliott huffs and starts shoving broken plates and bigger shards in the trash bag. “Most people would say ‘thank you’,” he points out darkly, and the only reply he gets is a distant mumble from the couch that he doesn’t even fully grasp. “Be careful with the trash bag. You don’t need to rip your hands open on top of things.”

He finds a brush and a dustpan under the sink, and starts sweeping the rest methodically. Pretty sure this guy would find a way to blame him, if he stepped on broken glass. For a moment, the only noises are those of harmless shards crunching under Eliott’s footsteps, and bigger pieces crashing together while he fills the trash bag.

“How’s your nose,” he asks above his shoulder, as he picks up the pans from the floor and a few things that survived the crash.

“Better I guess,” his neighbor admits, then he adds, reluctant: “I’m Lucas, by the way.”

“I know,” Eliott snorts. “You and your friends aren’t exactly the quiet type.” The understatement of the year. He’s lost count of how many times he’s heard his friends hollering his name in the common areas of their building. “I’m Eliott.”

Lucas gives a shrug. “I know,” he replies, but he offers no explanation in return.

Maybe he’s just pretending like he does know. Frankly? He wouldn’t put it past him. Eliott hums noncommittally in return, reaching for his phone in the back pocket of his battered jeans to check the time. “Not that it wasn’t nice and all but it’s getting late. You’re gonna be okay from here?”

“I don’t need you to tuck me in,” Lucas retorts, which is a little bit ironic, coming from someone who couldn’t even rise up from the floor fifteen minutes ago, but he’s too tired to care.

The weekend is starting to weight on him and his limbs are getting heavier. “Great,” he says with a sarcastic smile as he walks over to the entrance and throws his backpack over his shoulder. “Live long and prosper.”

**MARDI, 14:47**

**VENDREDI, 19:13**

“What is that?”, is the first thing that comes out of Lucas’ mouth, as he leans against the doorframe to keep his balance on one foot.

“It’s called a pizza,” Eliott replies flatly, still holding out the pizza box tucked between his arm and his chest. “I know there are plenty of words, like ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ that you’re not familiar with, but let me introduce you to this one lovely dish that will change your life.”

His neighbor stares at him. “Ah ah,” he deadpans coolly. “Why are you _walking around_ with a pizza?”

 _Why indeed_ , Eliott nearly adds, but he keeps it down to a tad dramatic eyeroll instead.

It’s been almost a week since his neighbor nearly killed himself with his very own silverware — which is also the last time he caught sight of him. Not that he really cares. Or that’s it’s any different from their usual routine. They rarely ever cross path anyway, had never even interacted directly until the other day, and Eliott can’t really say he’s been thinking about him all week long. If he’s being honest, he barely even had the time to catch a breath, with the third trimester parent-teacher conference right around the corner in the two different schools he’s teaching and the extra-dose of public transportation bullshit. He used to be pretty pissed, when people would try to make it sound like being an art teacher was both useless and piece of cake, but now he wouldn’t mind some parents not actually giving a shit — that’d surely clear his schedule a bit.

“Because I stupidly thought I could be nice and ask you if you want a slice,” Eliott says bluntly, but what is apparently obvious to him isn’t for everyone. Typically not for someone who was raised by the wolves, might he add.

Lucas’ eyes get all squinty. With his tousled hair and his frown, he straight up looks like a cartoon character. “Why?” He stretches out the word long enough to pour all the suspicion available in the world in it.

 _Because you’ve been alone for days, dumbass_ , Eliott almost replies, but he bites his tongue. It’s probably not even the truth. Maybe he receives visits when Eliott is at work. Loud, annoying visitors. But those loud, annoying visitors are usually his friends, and they usually drop by right on time for Eliott to want to bang his head against the wall.

(It’s not even like he’s spying on him purposefully.)

(They _do_ have really thin walls.)

Bottom line is, their floor has been unusually quiet lately. It’s not that Eliott doesn’t cherish this much-welcomed respite, don’t get him wrong, but it doesn’t make Lucas Lallemant any less noisy on his own. The only difference now is that instead of stomping his feet all the way up to their floor, he has to make do with him alternating between clicking or hopping his way around the flat. He’s not that much of an asshole to start complaining about it (just yet), but somehow talking to him directly the other day has made it a bit weirder to go on with his life and ignore the thick-headed idiot living next door.

“Look, do you want some or not?” Eliott snaps. 

“Fine,” his neighbor replies with an exaggerated sigh, and he’s got the nerve to look annoyed as he hops away from the doorway to let him in. As if he’s doing _him_ a favor.

It literally takes all of Eliott’s will-power not to turn around on his heels and go back to his place, nice gesture be damned. “We really need to get you started on ‘thank you’,” he groans as he steps in stiffly, kicking the door shut behind himself.

Lucas doesn’t even look remotely sorry. “A week ago you’d have pushed me in the stairs if you could,” he shrugs from the kitchen area.

 _Come_ _on_. Okay, he did bang the wall a couple of times in the past few months. And one particularly loud evening, when Eliott was still trying to process the beginning of the schoolyear and the fact that it, indeed, always felt like being ran over by a truck, he did write a lengthy letter to Lucas’ landlord to tell him, in chosen words, that he might soon be putting on the market a crime scene instead of a cozy 19m², if the situation kept going on like that.

But he can’t possibly have been the _only_ _one_ to complain.

He doesn’t even dignify it with a glance back, setting the box on the small coffee table instead. “Well, I took pity on you, deal with it.”

It earns him a sneer.

The tiny table has been pushed directly against the TV stand, because surprise, surprise, the pull-out couch hasn’t been folded back, occupying all the available space in the living-room area. Again, not surprising. It’s already annoying to deal with it twice a day — it’s the kind of thing you tell yourself is not that much of a chore, and then it becomes one — when you’ve got your two functioning legs, he can’t begin to imagine the pain it must be with only one.

Lucas grabs two plates that apparently managed to escape the bloodbath from last Sunday, and two beers from his small fridge, then bounces his way towards the pull-out couch.

“You know they gave you these for a good reason, right?” Eliott gestures unhelpfully at the crutches leaning against the wall.

A freezing glare gets thrown his way, but he ignores it. “If I hadn’t tried to use them the other day you wouldn’t be here,” Lucas retorts, but he hands him a beer nonetheless, so he can only guess he’s not actively trying to shoo him out.

He sits next to where Lucas has flopped down ungracefully, after putting the plates on the coffee-table. There’s a moment of silence, as Eliott reaches for the box sitting between them to open it, only disturbed by the sound of Lucas opening his beer.

“How are things going?” he ends up asking, after handing Lucas a slice.

“I’m absolutely thriving, as you can probably tell,” he snickers humorlessly. Eliott throws him a pointed stare from the corner of his eyes. “I’m on sick leave and I’m living on the 4th floor with no elevator and a broken leg. What do you think?”

Eliott drops his slice of pizza a mere second before he takes his first bite, heaving a long sigh. “Look, if you want me to keep pretending I can handle you, you could at least tone down the sarcasm.”

Lucas scoffs, mouth full of pizza. “What makes you think I want that?”

“You’re eating my pizza and I’m sitting on your bed,” Eliott deadpans. If he’s trying to get rid of him, that doesn’t seem really well-achieved. And it’s not like Lucas looks like an over-achiever either, but he seems to be the opposite of a doormat. “What happened to your idiot friends? They keep me awake at least three times a week usually,” he asks conversationally before taking a bite.

For a minute the flat goes silent, while Lucas stubbornly chews on his slice. “I told them I wasn’t in Paris,” he finally admits — half-heartedly, like it’s a physical pain to admit it.

Eliott frowns. “Why would you do that?”

There’s so much pride you can agree with yourself to deal with, when you’re alone and injured and basically trapped in a shoebox, no? Just him?

Lucas nibbles on the pizza crust, glaring at him sideways. “What’s with all the questions?”

He swears he can hear him shutting himself up all over again. _Snap_. He rolls his eyes and shrugs, taking another bite while Lucas grabs another slice. Silence settles between them again, but it’s not like it bothers him. Art classes aren’t known for being peaceful and quiet. 11yo have a very loud way of expressing creativity, 13yo like to complain a lot about the exercises he gives, and 14yo are a nightmare of cheeky statements and absolutely _not_ art-focused blabber, when they aren’t simply busy fighting for the computer in the corner of the room to supposedly ‘make research’.

Silence is the only upside of him being single.

“They were all fussing over me when it happened,” Lucas groans, glaring at the TV screen in front of them. “And Baz kept apologizing every three seconds and I thought ‘if I have to go through that for two months, I’m going to kill him or myself or both.’ So I told them I was with my mom. Happy?”

“Clearly yes, spending the evening with my neighbor who acts like I brought a dead rat instead of pizza is the peak of my existence.” Lucas opens his mouth to protest but Eliott keeps going on. “So your plan is to stay hidden and lie to your friends for the next two months. Sounds really fun.”

And here he thought he was just an asshole, but apparently he’s checking a few boxes in the sociopath category as well.

Lucas glares at him, this time frankly. “If I have to tone down the sarcasm, you need to tone down the know-it-allness.”

“Fine.”

“ _Fine_.”

**LUNDI, 15:21**

> **Re: suggestion**
> 
> From: bernard.morin@immogroupe.fr
> 
> To: lucaslmnt@hotmail.fr
> 
> Today, 15:21
> 
> Mr Lallemant,
> 
> I’m sincerely sorry to hear about your current physical condition, and I hope that you’ll be able to recover in no time. Unfortunately, we cannot add an elevator to an already existing building, even if there is “some space left on the side”, but statistics seem to be on your side for a full recovery. If you were, however, to face “life-long consequences”, perhaps it would be best for you to look for a different apartment.
> 
> Respectfully,
> 
> Bernard MORIN

**LUNDI, 17:39**

“I need your key,” Eliott sighs when the door flies open.

He doesn’t know why he’s sighing. Maybe because it’s almost 17h30, and because it’s a Monday, and because he still has to prepare an assignment for an art history session tomorrow for three different classes. Maybe because his work day has ended nearly two hours ago, and yet he’s only _about_ to make it home. Maybe because it’s the third time he’s knocking on that dumb door, only to find the same angry-slash-suspicious look on his neighbor’s face.

Who the fuck knows, _right_?

One thing needs to be made absolutely crystal clear: so far he’s never actively _decided_ to take care of that idiot. It’s just the universe that seems to have a few different ways to make him _care_ , and apparently he’s too dumb to worm his way out of it.

It’s not his fault, he was raised a certain way.

When he hears his neighbor almost dying as he’s passing by, he offers a hand. When he hasn’t heard him being his usual noisy self for a few days, he goes to check on him. When a delivery guy asks him if he knows a Mr. Lallemant in the building because the intercom is still sporting the old tenant’s name, he says that yes, he does, yes, he lives on the fourth floor, and yes, he will indeed have to move everything up there because the guy has a broken leg.

So, _obviously_ , when the day after he found himself staring at a mess of colorful glossy paper peeking out from the mailbox next to his own, he did feel the need to do something about it. Even if that something implies that he has to actually _talk_ to his neighbor.

“Not even a hello?” Lucas sneers, half-hidden by the barely cracked-open door. “And _you_ lecture me on politeness?”

Eliott stares back at him flatly. “It’s a waste of time with you. So?”

Lucas eyes him from head to toe. “I’m not giving you a _key_ ,” he scoffs, and he says the word like Eliott has come here to ask for a kidney transplant. “Not unless you show me your criminal record.”

Let it be known that the only reason Eliott hasn’t strangled him yet is in large part because he doesn’t have the energy to deal with a body and murder charges. “Jesus, get down from that high horse, will you?” he snaps. “Your mailbox is overflowing, genius! So unless you want to call your friends to tell them to come help you, or you want to climb down and back up four flights of stairs, you’ll have to let me help you.”

He can’t believe he has to put it like that for Lucas to be able to see the light.

(He also can’t believe a grown-ass adult would find himself in a situation like this, but that’s beside the point.)

And the worst part? He can _see_ the moment the wheels start turning inside his head. For once Lucas shuts his stupid mouth long enough to form a coherent thought process, then he opens the door a little wider, his hand motioning to pull the keys out of the keyhole.

“I hope it makes you feel good,” he grits out with a glare, but it’s even less impressive than it usually is when the person trying to murder you with their eyes is standing on one feet and desperately trying to take a key off a keychain.

Eliott is _this_ close to protect his face with his arms, in case his neighbor snaps and throws the keyset right in front of him, when he notices a purple spot next to Lucas’ left eye. It stretches a little bit towards his temple, and gets slightly darker where it meets his hairline.

“What happened again?”, he asks tiredly, before he can think better.

The guy has a broken leg, his tee-shirt is putting on display a patch of red and slightly swollen skin on his right arm — didn’t he mention burning himself or something? — and now _this_? If he adds the bleeding nose from the other day, and the fact that he’s practically sure he’s never heard him locking (or unlocking for that matter) his front door _ever_ , it’s like Lucas is auditioning to become a ‘not to be trusted alone’ advertisement.

Like those posters in science labs in middle schools.

_Be careful not to injure yourself!_

_Do not drink bleach!_

It’s at this exact moment that the tiny key breaks free from the metal ring, and Lucas shoves it unceremoniously in the hand Eliott holds out. “Nothing happened,” Lucas replies haughtily, but his eyes snap up to meet Eliott’s when he clasps his hand shut on Lucas’ fingers. He cocks an eyebrow, pulling ever so slightly, and Lucas caves with an irritated expression on his face. “ _Fine_ , I slipped in the shower.”

He jerks his hand away and Eliott lets it go.

“You shouldn’t be allowed to stay by yourself,” he mutters.

He’s pretty sure Lucas stabs him with his eyes a couple of times. “Oh, why, because I’m too dumb to take care of _myself_?”

Eliott shakes his head and takes a step back, pulling himself away from the doorway. “I know you’re trying to make a point but you’re failing.”

“I _can_ take care of myself,” Lucas protests, leaning forward a little bit in the doorframe, and his voice gets louder as it echoes in the silent hall.

“Start with locking the door for once,” Eliott throws without turning back. 

His dumb mail can wait until tomorrow, he thinks pettily as he unlocks his front door defiantly.

**JEUDI, 22:58**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the positive feedbacks and kudos and comments, you guys are the best 🤧💕💞

**VENDREDI, 23:32**

**SAMEDI, 10:44**

Living next to Lucas has taught him to expect a variety of things, now that he thinks about it — sounds and noises, that’s for sure. But his neighbor playing _the piano_? That’s a first, he thinks, a little bewildered, as he stands in the doorway of his neighbor’s flat. Lucas is sitting at the foot of his bed, a concentrated frown on his face as his fingers hover over a keyboard, headphones shutting down the rest of the world as he’s absorbed in music Eliott can’t hear.

Truth is, it feels a lot like observing animals out in the wild. You know they’re deadly, but they’re sort of pretty enough from afar to be willing to take the risk of them ultimately spotting you. Sue him, but he would have never pegged Lucas as a classic music lover, let alone a player. Part of it might be prejudice, but it’s not like anyone can possibly make a piano fit in such a small apartment and still have a place to sleep — or so he thought.

For the tiniest second, he’s set on taking a step back and close the door as quietly as possible. Disappear without ever making his presence known. But it’s a tiny second too long. Just as he starts to pull the door closed, Lucas’ eyes snap up to him, his hand flying to yank his headphones off.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” he snaps, ever so polite, and Eliott purses his lips, an audible groan coming out from his throat. “Just because the door isn’t locked doesn’t give you the right _not_ to knock, asshole!”

At least he’s admitting he’s a reckless idiot who won’t listen to other people, that’s a good start, Eliott sarcastically notes — but mostly, the asshole part tingles. “I _did_ knock, you didn’t hear me,” he protests, earnest.

Yet Lucas still looks at him like he’d very much appreciate to throw him off the rooftop. Technically he knows he’s in the wrong, but there’s this voice in his head, and it’s petty enough to tell him that he could have been a serial killer and Lucas would have been a lot less bratty then.

“I didn’t know you played the piano,” he adds diplomatically, hoping to diffuse the tension.

It doesn’t work. Shocker.

“Maybe because that’s none of your business,” Lucas retorts sharply.

“I hate to break it to you,” Eliott snaps back, “but you and your boyfriend fucking in the shower wasn’t my business either. Didn’t stop you from going at it every damn Sunday morning, last I remember.”

The words flow out of Eliott’s mouth before he can even think it through, and for a moment Lucas doesn’t reply anything. If Eliott was really into patting himself on the back, he’d even go as far as saying he’s deflating like a balloon, if only for a few seconds. Okay that’s not a pretty move, and chances are that he will even live to regret it, but right now it feels weirdly satisfying.

(And it’s not like he’s expecting Lucas to _apologize_ , considering it seems a lot like he’s chronically unable to do that.)

(He only needs Lucas to be self-aware with how thin the walls are.)

(He absolutely doesn’t need any more details about what was going on in that shower than the pieces he already put together, thanks a lot.)

Soon enough though, the accusatory scowl is back, and Lucas folds his arms on his chest. “What are you even doing home?” he groans, openly ignoring him. “Don’t you have a job or something?”

He says that with a touch of sarcasm and a huge dose of disdain, like Eliott is either doing meth or the owner of an underground dog fighting ring. Which, you know, he _should_ probably be upset about, and he _could_ probably retort something snappy and witty, but it’s not the first thing that comes.

“Lucas, it’s Saturday,” he points out bluntly.

For the second time in the last two minutes alone Lucas seems at loss of an answer, which might well and truly be Eliott’s personal new record. He can’t believe he’s even trying to be amiable. He can’t believe he’s even _trying_ , period.

Why did he even come here in the first place?

 _Oh. Right_. Because he’s been a lazy idiot all week long, and now he’s running particularly short in edible things — that too might be a new personal record. If he wants to eat something that isn’t mustard on a toast or an old tea bag, he really needs to get down the street to grab a few things, even if he’d have gladly stayed in bed until noon.

He lets out a sigh. “Look, I was going to buy food, and I was dumb enough to come here to ask you if you needed anything.”

“A reason to live would be nice,” Lucas grumbles sarcastically.

Eliott huffs. “Not sure I’ll be able to find something like that, but I’ll try.” He fidgets awkwardly for one more second in the doorframe, suddenly hyper-aware that he’s been standing there forever and that his hand has been on the door handle for about as long. He clears his throat a little. “Just so you know, that’s the type of nuisance I could deal with,” he says, pointing at the keyboard.

Lucas gives him a look. “I’m a full-package, Demaury, deal with it.”

**DIMANCHE, 16:06**

**MARDI, 20:39**

Tuesdays suck, is the only coherent thought process he can form, as he tiredly drags himself up the fourth flight of stairs.

It’s not even like it comes as a surprise — he’s never liked Tuesdays.

When he was six, it was a synonym of strong chlorine smell, overexcited classmates, and anxiety towards the unnaturally colored water of the pool that was borderline aquaphobia. At ten, it meant he had a chance out of 23 to be summoned at the front of the classroom, to recite their weekly-imposed dose of poetry. At sixteen, Tuesday sucked enough to be by far the longest, _heaviest_ day of his schedule. It just feels fitting that now, at twenty-five, one of the most nerve-wrecking events of the entire schoolyear would happen on a goddam Tuesday.

You want to know what’s worse than dealing with raunchy middle-schoolers?

Dealing with them for an entire work-day.

And then doing the same with their parents.

If you ever thought that forty-year-olds would behave better than their thirteen-year-olds kids, Eliott would have a few stories to offer as a counter-example. And if this wasn’t enough-

“You look like shit,” is the first thing that greets him, when he finally makes it to his floor, and…

Okay, look. It’s not even like he _can’t_ take a little bit of roasting. God knows that ten years of friendship with Idriss and Sofiane (and all the additional members of his friend group) have taught him that. But there’s roasting with them, and roasting _with Lucas_.

The guy who can’t even acknowledge his presence without making it sound like it’s the key-element to all of his problems. The guy who doesn’t even know how to say _hello_. Even the delivery guy standing in Lucas’ doorway offers Eliott a slightly puzzled expression, while his dumbass neighbor casually hands him a 20€ bill, like nothing happened.

Eliott doesn’t even dignify Lucas’ attitude with a glance, walking straight past them while he receives his change. “Do I look like I care?”

He’s busy enough searching his satchel for his keys that he only notices the delivery guy leaving when he’s already disappearing in the stairwell. But Lucas? Nope. Lucas is still standing there, paper bag in one hand, while the other helps him keep his balance on one foot. Apparently getting on his nerves is his activity for tonight, he thinks grumpily as he finally exhumes his keys from the depths of his bag front pocket.

“I’m just saying it’s rich, coming from someone who insists on lecturing others all the damn time.”

“Whatever you say,” Eliott replies flatly, unlocking his front door. He doesn’t have the patience for a sparring match tonight anyway. If Lucas wants to have the final word tonight, then he can have it.

“Hey,” Lucas calls out, just as he’s crossing the threshold. Eliott gives him a look, and his neighbor avoids his eyes for a split-second, before looking back at him. “You want some?”, he asks, pointing at the paper bag.

It catches Eliott a little bit off-guard, and it must show on his face because Lucas snorts. “Look, don’t make a big deal, I’ve been alone for almost three weeks. Right now it’s you or my coffee-maker.”

So it’s true when they say several days of isolation are behavior-altering, Eliott notes inwardly. And here he thought he had seen the most of Lucas’ disastrous personality. “I’m not making a big deal. It’s just offered so _nicely_ , it’s hard to take it seriously.”

Lucas lips tighten a little, drawing a thin line. “The coffee-maker wouldn’t complain.”

“The coffee-maker can’t talk,” Eliott says, motioning a little bit in his doorway. “I thought it was the reason you chose me over it.”

Lucas huffs. “ _Chose_ is a strong word. So?”

Eliott gives a look to his apartment through his front door hanging open. It feels welcoming. Good. Not the coziest but he can definitely see what would benefit his headache at the moment. And yet he’s stupidly torn, for some reason. He’s not going to lie, it’s the first time Lucas is behaving like a human being — it has something strangely captivating to it, even if he’s highly puzzled at the sudden behavioral turnaround. There’s this part of him that is still not entirely sure Lucas isn’t trying to mess with him, but the other part is somewhat hopeful he’s got better things to do than pull stuff like that.

Eventually, he gives a nod. “Give me five minutes to grab something for my head.”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Alright but you better hurry the fuck up because I’m literally starving.”

And here it is. Eliott scoffs and shakes his head, striding inside of his flat without a look back and slamming the door — just loud enough to mark his annoyance. If he’s _starving_ , why didn’t he order before then, uh? This guy is fucking hopeless. There’s only one person on Earth who would manage to make it sound like _he’s_ at fault for absolutely _not_ planning to get dinner with Lucas Lallemant, and it’s _Lucas_ _fucking_ _Lallemant_ himself, in all his stupid glory.

He drops his satchel in the entrance, and immediately motions to the kitchen area, in desperate need of some aspirin. He has half a mind to change his clothes for sweats, but he’s not sure he’d have the strength to put some pants back on after stripping down — and it’s not like he’s ever planning on reaching that level of intimacy with Lucas, where they just barge in in their underwear.

It’s a little past 20h30 when he finds himself next door, and there’s something strangely satisfying in _not_ knocking. Naturally it earns him a glare from the pulled-out couch, where Lucas is sitting, when he strolls inside without so much as an apology.

“Took you long enough,” Lucas groans snappily, immediately grabbing the paper bag waiting next to him. He pointedly makes the staples pop to make his point across, but Eliott shrugs it off. It’s Mexican night apparently, judging by the design on the bag, but it’s not like Lucas enquires about his tastes as he stiffly nudges a food-container in his direction.

(But he likes Mexican food, so who is he to complain?)

“How much did you order exactly?” Eliott frowns when he starts counting the boxes Lucas keeps pulling out. There are at least four or five different containers piled up on the tiny coffee-table and they all smell different.

“Why do you care,” Lucas rolls his eyes and Eliott-

Well, to be fair, he rolls his eyes too. Which is kind of dumb, but when he catches himself he’s already doing it. It’s not like you can take back something like that anyway. They start eating in silence, Eliott his portion of tacos and Lucas munching on his nachos, and it’s not like it’s absolutely _heaven_ , he’s a rather chatty person at times, it’s just that his brain is a little fried at the moment — so silence it is, and silence is good.

He barely notices when a text pops up on his phone, sitting in the corner of the coffee-table. Well not just a text. A string of texts. They all pile up one after the other, leaving Eliott only the time to spot Idriss and Sofiane’s names returning over and over again. Seems like someone is having a field day spamming their groupchat, he notes. The only word he’s managed to read so far is ‘birthday’ (or anniversary, he’s not sure all of a sudden), and it takes him a good minute to mentally flick through his friends’ birthdates. Idriss’ was a month ago, and Sofiane’s isn’t till September. Imane’s is-

“The coffee-maker doesn’t talk but at least it makes coffee.”

Eliott’s head swivels to the side, where Lucas is still busy pretending to look somewhere else. His immaturity truly is legendary.

“Your point being?” he asks, taking another bite off his taco.

“You’re just sitting there and eating,” Lucas mutters, sounding annoyed. There’s something, deep down, that makes Eliott think he’s not used _not_ to be the center of attention. “What’s with the long face?”

It’s funny how it almost sounds like he cares. Almost. Not quite. They might have been together in the same room only a handful of times so far, but it doesn’t mean that Eliott hasn’t learned better already. He could bet anything that he’s only trying to make some conversation because he’s bored out of his mind.

“I just got out of a parent-teacher night,” he sighs, reaching for a paper napkin to wipe his mouth. “A fucking lot of energy gone to waste for nothing, let me tell you.”

Parents always ask a _million_ questions. It’s already hard to keep calm when it’s through _emails_ but when it’s face-to-face how is he even supposed to react? He’s in the type of field where everyone thinks they have a good opinion — which is honestly bullshit. No one comes challenging a math teacher about the answer to a test because they think ‘it shows sensibility’.

“I don’t really remember anyone making a big deal out of art classes,” Lucas snorts.

“Well they _shouldn’t_ ,” Eliott grumbles briskly. “There’s a reason why no one is an art prodigy at 11, seriously. Like, take this couple. I have their kid in my class for the second year in a row, I swear to God I’ve been this close to throwing myself out the window.” He takes another hateful bite of his taco and chews on it. “What the fuck am I even supposed to do if their son is color-blind? Just because he doesn’t see the right colors doesn’t mean he can’t put together two fruits and a vegetable for an assignment, who the fuck are they kidding?”

And, honestly, _assignment_ is a big word. The kid is twelve for fuck’s sake, it’s not like he’s expecting him, or any of his classmates, to be the next fucking Pollock!

Lucas snorts halfway through stuffing his face with nachos, and he ends up sputtering crumbs everywhere like an idiot. That too, it takes Eliott aback. First- Well. First because it’s the first time he’s heard him laugh — or, like, _almost_ laugh. So like, he guesses it should be some kind of milestone, or at least a good accomplishment if they were in a video game. Then, because he hadn’t really meant to start ranting like that, to Lucas Lallemant of all people.

(It’s kind of embarrassing, he has to admit.)

“Sounds like it sucks almost as much as trying to keep people older than you from locking one other in the freezer,” Lucas says, once he’s managed to swallow everything and got rid of the cheddar smeared on his chin with a paper napkin Eliott offered.

Eliott is positive his eyes grew wide as saucers. “Where on _Earth_ are you working?”

His neighbor spares him a glance, then a casual shrug. “Do you like crappy chicken wings in a bucket? Well that’s my area of expertise. Not the worst job ever but close enough. At least now I’m a manager.” He sets his container of half-eaten nachos down to open another one — chili this time. “They call it hazing, but some have been there for, like, months and they’re still dumb enough to mess around like that.”

 _Manager_. So this man-child, the FIFA player, the inconsiderate asshole, the guy who broke his leg while playing football, the guy who obstinately refuses to _lock his front door_ pretty much because Eliott told him to do so- _this guy_ is supposed to be in charge of _something_? Literally _anything_?

God that’s hard to believe. Who would have thought that Grade A-Immature Asshole was an attractive quality on a resume?

“The day one of them gets frozen to death, they might understand better,” Eliott offers. _And the day you get stabbed in your sleep you might say I was right about the front door_.

Lucas snickers darkly. “I don’t really give a fuck, they can drown each other in the Seine for all I care, but just don’t mess up with the freezer because that’s _my_ head on the line.”

“I’m starting to understand where all the crappy attitude comes from,” Eliott huffs.

It earns him another glare. “Rule n°1, you do not get to insult someone who’s offering food.”

“Didn’t seem to deter you the first time,” Eliott comments, grabbing another container. “Nice to know you can be slightly less of an asshole when you feel like it though.”

“I’ll beat you to death with my crutches.”

“You wouldn’t be fast enough.”

**MERCREDI, 07:54**

**SAMEDI, 11:01**

Lucas wriggles on his folded couch, nearly causing Eliott’s paintbrush to draw a thick, white line across the small alien head he’s just spent fifteen minutes painting. “If you don’t keep still, I’m going to make a mess,” he warns, a hint of annoyance lacing his tone, as he pointedly takes away the paintbrush.

His neighbor freezes on the spot, his hands still flat on the couch as he’s about to push himself up a little bit more. “You better not,” Lucas threatens, “or I swear to _God_ I-”

“… will beat me to death with your crutches, yes, I know,” Eliott completes dryly. He doesn’t even bother looking away from the task at hand, all too aware that Lucas is currently practicing his favorite sport as of late — mentally stabbing him to death. There’s no point in bringing him the joy of acknowledgment on top of things, especially because he can already _feel_ Lucas scowling.

“You think you’re _so_ smart.”

Eliott hums in response, unfazed, mechanically adjusting Lucas’ leg over his own knee. With a concentrated frown he starts rotating it slightly to the side to get a better angle. Truth be told, when he offhandedly offered to paint Lucas’ cast after hearing him complain about it for a solid ten minutes straight during their Mexican dinner, he wasn’t expecting him to accept. He was especially _not_ expecting him to limp his way over to his place, on a Saturday morning.

“You offered, right?”, Lucas said gruffly, about two hours ago, when Eliott stared at him in confusion — and, you know, he always has this talent, whatever the situation is, for sounding like he expects better from you.

(In Eliott’s defense he was barely waking up, and things were still a little blurry around the edges.)

He barely had the time to put some pants on and get a coffee-fix before grabbing a few painting supplies he still had stashed in a corner of his tiny flat, waiting for him to finally sit down and give them attention after months of nothing, and hopping next door. Lucas and him started browsing ideas together, and although Lucas got excited (which, coming from him, might be a strong word) over the idea of getting his X-Ray painted on his cast, they had to quickly drop the idea when they both realized it would call for Lucas staying put long enough to paint it all black — and that it would be only the first step of many.

In the end they’ve settled for doodles instead.

Well, he suggested, and Lucas shrugged a vague yes.

If you ask Eliott, he absolutely does not regret _not_ going for the X-Ray, as it turns out. The few things he’s managed to paint so far, none of which being even remotely challenging, have each taken thrice the time it’d take to sketch on a paper sheet, and Lucas’ patience is literally nowhere to be found, except when he’s trusting him long enough to start scrolling through his phone for a minute or two.

With Lucas’ leg kept put with one arm, Eliott carefully dips his paintbrush in the rinsing cup sitting on the floor next to him. “You threaten me of a painful death at least once an hour, I got used to it.”

“For a reason,” Lucas retorts pointedly. “I’m the one who will have to stare at it for five more weeks if you screw this up.”

All the more reasons for Lucas to stay quiet and not to piss him off, Eliott almost retorts, unless Lucas hasn’t quite understood that he’s ready to draw a giant dick in the middle, if worst comes to worst. He vaguely hums something in response, still focused on the cast, and tries to zone-out. Charcoal and sketches have always been his go-to artistic outlet, more than paintbrushes and acrylic, but there’s something relaxing and comforting into focusing so much, and a few minutes of silence are enough to make him almost forget about Lucas every now and then.

“Any plans for tonight?”

Eliott peers at him, cocking an eyebrow curiously. “Why? You want to get rid of me already?”

“I’m still working on that,” Lucas huffs, unfazed. “So?”

Eliott shakes his head, and leans to the side to switch paintbrushes for a thinner brush. “No. I’m just going to stay in,” he shrugs, starting to meticulously fill in the right eye of the alien head. “Are you that bored already to be asking?”

He angles Lucas’ leg slightly differently, adjusting it on his knee once more. He should have made the alien a bit bigger — he didn’t anticipate that the contour would become so thick after the third layer, and the eyes are getting dangerously close to merge with it.

“It’s just that you’ve been home a lot lately,” Lucas says, while Eliott is busy frowning at his drawing in intense concentration. “Not quite in your habits.”

It takes Eliott a moment to figure out he’s said anything at all, and then an extra handful of seconds to draw the implications of it. Does that mean that Lucas is paying attention to his whereabouts? There’s probably a part of him that should be offended, perhaps even weirded out, but it’s hardly anywhere to be found. First, because Eliott has been able to tell, only a few days ago, that Lucas’ friends haven’t been around for a while, simply by putting two and two together. Clearly, he isn’t in the right spot to be pissy about Lucas doing the same. Second, because if indeed Lucas has nothing better to do than to be spying on him, then Eliott might be forced to recognize that he indeed hasn’t given him much to spy on in the first place — which is probably why they are having this non-conversation.

He lifts his paintbrush off the cast, long enough to spare Lucas a glance. “You seem to know a lot about me, for someone who doesn’t care.”

“And you’re deflecting a lot for someone who doesn’t have anything to hide,” Lucas easily bites back.

“Hiding,” Eliott repeats blankly, then he lets out a small scoff as he starts painting again. “C’mon. I’m working full-time, in case you forgot, and I’ve been knee-deep into parent meetings. Not quite in the mood to party the night away.”

“You’re, what, 25? Everyone’s in the mood to party.” He squirms some more and Eliott just has the time to lift his paintbrush before something dramatic happens, not only to the alien but to the paper airplane, situated in its immediate vicinity. He throws his neighbor an irritated glance, which Lucas ignores superbly, too caught up in his stupid misconceptions of the universe to notice. “You’re not hiding something, you’re _hiding,_ period.”

Eliott irritatingly grabs his cast at the ankle, pulling at it sharply enough to draw an offended glance on him. “Says the one who’s been hiding first,” he retorts, slamming a hand just above Lucas’ knee to keep him from moving. “Last I remember _you’re_ the one who can’t even ask his friends to go to the damn mailbox for him.”

“So you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding!” Eliott snaps, and Lucas’ pointed glance gives him the very primal need to throw the content of the rinsing cup right in his face. “I’m just tired of third-wheeling, alright? My two best friends are in a long-term relationship, and I’m not, and that’s it.”

He can’t believe he just let the stupid idiot that Lucas Lallemant is rile him up enough to snap. He’s dealing with teens every single day, how come the one person who is able to make him lose his patience is a literal _man-child_ on a day- _off_?

 _God give me the patience not to strangle him_ , he thinks bitterly.

“Together?”, Lucas asks, and Eliott eyes him grumpily. “The long-term relationship, I mean.”

It throws him off a bit. “Oh, no,” he mutters, shaking his head. “No, no, they both have girlfriends.” He pauses, long enough to add the final touch to the left eye of the alien head. “But there’s always, you know, that part of me that feels like we’re not on the same page.”

The part that is avoiding the stolen glances and the loving hands every time they are all gathered in one place. The part that conveniently makes him tune in a different conversation when Idriss starts flirting with Sali, and the part that makes him check his phone whenever Sofiane and Imane bicker jokingly. He loves his friends, dearly, and he’s very happy that they have found such amazing people to start a relationship with, but in the long run…

“I can’t relate,” Lucas says, making his attention drift back to him. It’s probably the least aggressive he’s ever been in Eliott’s presence, and he looks almost thoughtful as he adds: “I’ve always been the one two steps ahead. I was already living on my own in high school, then I got a boyfriend. For a while it feels a lot like you’ve got everything set and ready for the rest of your life.” He twists his mouth a little, then waves awkwardly, as if to discard the thought. “Then it falls apart and next thing you know you’re not two steps ahead anymore, you’re just… here, in the middle.”

Eliott leans to the side to put the paintbrush down, annoyance wafting away. He picks up the old hair-dryer his sister’s given him when he was still painting on the regular, and starts fastening the cable a little — obviously Lucas snorted when he spotted it, to which Eliott retorted that he wasn’t going to spend the entire day waiting for everything to dry on its own.

“You guys have been together for a long time?”, he enquires curiously.

It’s always like that with him. He’ll start by pissing you off, then when you are annoyed enough he will finally start behaving like a normal human being. But even still, there’s a part of him that is half-expecting Lucas to tell him to fuck off anyway.

After a second, though, he offers a casual shrug, deep blue eyes focused on his cast.

“Three years and a half.”

“And he threw your stuff to the trash?” Lucas’ eyes snap up to meet his own, and Eliott finds himself rolling and twisting the hairdryer cable between his fingers under his neighbor’s weird glance. “The first time we talked. You said- You know what, nevermind, it’s none of my business.”

He looks away, finger already about to power on the hairdryer, when Lucas shakes his head. “Nah, that’s Valentin. The one I was dating after I moved here. We were together for like, five months.”

It still doesn’t make things okay, but he bites his tongue. If someone is aware of that, it surely is Lucas.

“The last relationship I had was…” Eliott pauses to rack his brain. “I don’t know. Two years ago maybe?”

It’s always a bit of a stretch to remember. Whenever he’s asked about his past relationships, it always comes back to Lucille, no matter that she isn’t even his most recent ex to this day. They were an item for years, and even after their first break-up, halfway into the Terminal year he had to repeat, they kept seeing each other on and off for three more years. He remembers calling Idriss once to tell him about that huge fight he had with her and the way she had stormed off and the way they had basically been tearing each other apart verbally, only for his friend to reply ‘ _Wait, you guys were back together_?’

Of course there’ve been other people too, but can you call it a relationship when it’s just a matter of weeks? What is even a relationship, in the end? He’s never moved in with anyone, and he’s pretty sure these days sex is no longer the defining feature of a long-term, committed relationship.

“You’re kidding,” Lucas deadpans unhelpfully, cutting off his train of thoughts.

“No. It freaks me out enough, don’t rub salt in the wound.”

He huffs. “Why?”

Eliott puts the hairdryer down on the coffee-table. “ _Because_ ,” he says, and since Lucas doesn’t seem to get it, he tries to find the right words. “Sometimes I just, you know, I just wonder if I didn’t sabotage a relationship that was it for me simply because it didn’t come at the right time.” He looks down, letting his fingers graze over the paper airplane on the cast distractedly. “I don’t know, it’s scary to think that the one for you might be someone you’re already done with.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Lucas pushes himself back up a little, adjusting his back against the backrest. “If you guys are soulmates it will work out in the end.”

Eliott snorts. “Calm down, I never talked about soulmates specifically.”

“You said ‘the one’,” Lucas points out, and he looks so serious that Eliott frowns. “That means you think there’s someone made for you out there. Sounds a lot like soulmates to me.”

“Isn’t that a bit… I don’t know, childish?” he asks carefully.

Lucas shrugs. “Not really. I just think that there’s something comforting in believing that.”

Eliott considers him pensively. Who would have thought that Lucas Lallemant, of all people, would be a romantic soul? And not just _any_ romantic soul, because Eliott likes to think of himself as fairly romantic on his part, but a good old soulmate believer?

“What are you looking at?” Lucas barks. It seems like he’s followed the exact train of thoughts and he doesn’t sound happy about it. “I thought you didn’t want to spend the entire day here.”

“Well maybe I will,” Eliott retorts defiantly, but it isn’t quite real. In fact, he even bites back a smile. “Just to get on your nerves.”

Lucas’ answer is immediately drowned by the loud noise of the hairdryer Eliott picked back up and turns on, but when he risks a quick glance in his direction, it seems like there’s a hint of a smile.

**SAMEDI, 15:28**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mention of depression ⚠️

**LUNDI, 19:01**

Being a teacher isn’t so bad once you’ve made peace with the fact that, just like any other job, it doesn’t specifically _have_ to be a life-sentence; teaching art to middle-schoolers was still enough fun to exceed the amount of (somewhat significant) downsides, and that’s what keeps comforting him that he’s doing just fine. It obviously doesn’t mean he misses his students one bit whenever he’s on day-offs, or that he even longs to have children on his own to somewhat fill the void in-between classes.

And _yet_ , one may say.

Yet, indeed. He’s literally finding himself spending his evening with a 20-something-year-old bratty teenager. For better or for worse, that’s the hole he’s dug for himself, he thinks begrudgingly as he searches his pockets for his keys with his free hand, while the other is busy holding a paper bag sporting some kebab place logo on either side. It’s stupid, but going back to drawing the other day, if only to doodle over Lucas’ stupid cast, has made him suddenly hyper-aware of how long has passed since he last took two hours to himself to do something productive.

Tonight was supposed to be _the night_.

But it all flew out the window the minute he got home after work, a little over an hour ago, to a gruff-looking Lucas apparently waiting for him to come back.

“The hot water isn’t working,” he had grumbled in lieu of a greeting, back resting against the wall separating their front doors. For once he had decided to be reasonable enough to use his crutches, but since he looked like a newborn fawn trying to process how limbs worked, Eliott could only guess he didn’t bother doing that very often. “Do you mind if I use your shower?”

Eliott had snorted, giving him his most annoying grin, the one that made his sister throw a tantrum when they were kids because _mom he’s doing it on purpose!!!_ “You do realize that if it weren’t for me you would probably be dead by now, right?”

Lucas had granted him a hell-freezing glare. “I know that me coming _here_ to ask you _this_ is the biggest mistake of my life.”

“You sure about that?”, he hadn’t resisted to add while unlocking his front door.

Lucas had groaned something under his breath, something snappy and bitter he didn’t quite catch but he could only guess wasn’t any better than a flow of very creative insults stringed together.

“C’mon, I’m just messing with you,” Eliott had huffed while Lucas was trying to make a point of turning his back on him — with his cast and his crutches, it was his whole body coordination he had to review, and it had left plenty of time for Eliott to open the door wide open and cross his arms.

“Oh, _really_?” Lucas had spat. “You’re being _so_ subtle, I couldn’t _tell_.”

And so this is how he’s ended up letting the devil in.

A grumpy, whiny, pocket-sized devil, with a huge tendency to consider ‘fuck’ as a valid tool to build sentences whenever he is mad at the world — in short, all day, every day. He doesn’t even remember Lucas _not_ being mad at something to some extent, or someone, and it’s certainly not today that things will play out differently, he’s already figured.

“What’s going on, what did the landlord say?”, Eliott had enquired, more out of politeness than genuine interest.

“Nothing, because it’s late and he isn’t picking up,” Lucas had replied, fuming. “I swear to God, if I have to wait another day I’ll sue.”

“Never thought you were the kind to go straight to press charges.”

Lucas had scowled, planting himself in the middle of the flat. “Someone extremely _annoying_ told me I’d be too slow to deck people.”

In that moment, Eliott had realized two things. The first one is that Lucas _does_ remember the things Eliott tells him; he just practically never bothers to act on them or acknowledge them. The second one is that his flat isn’t nearly big enough for him to be able to ignore a naked Lucas showering, even locked in the tiny bathroom — and he doesn’t particularly fancy himself _without_ his eyes, which would probably be the punishment his neighbor would threaten him with if he so much as caught a glimpse of anything.

Not that he’s interested.

There’s so much that big blue eyes and perfect bone structure can make up for, when the personality underneath the surface is _that_ shitty to deal with on the regular.

_Fucking shit_ , he curses to himself, after a good minute of fumbling in his jacket pockets, his pants pockets, back, _front_ , and even the goddamn paper bag — but his keys are still a no show. He’s forced to take a step closer from the entrance of the lobby, hitting a tad harshly the button of the intercom right next to his name. What are the odds that this dumbass isn’t even around to answer?, he groans to himself, impatiently waiting as a few seconds pass by.

Eventually, though, there’s the click of someone picking up in the speaker.

“I forgot my keys, let me in,” he grumbles, not waiting for an answer.

There’s a one-second silence, then Lucas’ voice comes out from the speaker, a bit weird and scratchier than usual. “Well, well, well, how the tables turned,” he taunts, sounding entirely too satisfied with the situation. Eliott’s grip on the paper bag tightens with a crumpling noise. “I thought you were a functional adult, blah blah blah.”

Eliott scowls at the intercom, no matter that Lucas can’t see him. He wouldn’t have forgotten his keys upstairs if he hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave his apartment. And because of what? Because he has the most annoying neighbor, who has apparently pissed off a variety of people in his past lives and is now officially karma’s favorite bitch.

“Let. Me. In,” he articulates, “or I swear I’m throwing your food in the trash.”

Lucas lets out a sound of protest through the speaker. “Jeez, calm the fuck down,” he grumbles, voice crackling a little. He hangs up with a click, soon followed by the familiar buzzing sound unlocking the door.

Eliott steps inside the lobby, grumpily contemplating what his evening is going to look like as he walks up the stairs.

“You didn’t have to threaten the food,” Lucas comments dryly when he steps inside, limping his way over to Eliott’s tiny open kitchen like it’s just extension of his own flat and he’s always belonged here. His hair, still damp from the shower, is lacking its usual messiness, and he’s paired one of his favorite hoodies with basketball shorts, giving a bit of a weird pre-summer vibe.

Eliott makes a point of locking the front door with a harsh turn of keys and a pointed glare that earns him an eyeroll. “I didn’t have to let you use my shower either, and yet I did,” he retorts, sitting the paper bag on the minuscule countertop before shrugging off his jacket.

“Fuck, does that mean I have to say thank you then?” Lucas deadpans, as he pushes himself up on one of the two bar-stools.

The blatant non-shit given attitude continues to take Eliott aback every time it makes an appearance, and he stares at him, half-astounded, half-amused, before shaking his head with a snort. “God, I pity your soulmate.”

“Don’t talk shit about my soulmate or I will punch you,” Lucas snaps, digging into the paper bag as Eliott rounds the counter. He stops halfway and eyes the logo on the front, brows knitting together. “I thought we were getting burgers.”

Eliott grabs the second bar-stool, voluntarily ignoring the slight accusation in Lucas’ tone. Maybe that’s the key to living a peaceful life. Admit that Lucas is just a moron and move on. “There was a change of plans.”

_Also known as ‘my students’_.

He hadn’t expected the closest McDonald’s to be packed on a Monday night, and especially _not_ to find himself staring through the glass door at a waiting line with a group of at least three of his students chatting animatedly. He doesn’t mind answering a casual wave of the hand outside from school, something kids until 14 are surprisingly not shy to do, but waiting in line with them? Not so much. In the end he had slammed the brakes and hit a kebab place nearby.

“You got a problem with kebabs?”

Lucas shrugs in response, grabbing one of the two take-out boxes and popping it open. The smell of fries and kebab meat fills the room and Eliott dives into his own impatiently, if only to prevent his stomach from gurgling like a dumbass.

“The drawings are dope,” Lucas says, almost like an afterthought, while Eliott shoves a few fries in his mouth. He frowns in confusion, turning on his seat to glance at the few stuff he has on display on his walls — some framed, some pinned, some unfinished. He tries to imagine his flat the way Lucas is seeing it, with his vinyls stashed in a corner under the turntable, the clothes rack right behind them with its stark contrast of worn-out hoodies, band tee-shirts and ripped jeans next to the ‘adultier’ stuff he usually wears at work.

It’s only when he notices a big, black folder sitting at the foot of his bed that he realizes what this is actually about. “Wait, were you snooping around?”, he says slowly, recognizing his portfolio from school. Where did he even find it? It must have been at least _a century_ since he’s last opened it, let alone looked out for it.

Lucas gives him a defiant look, one eyebrow cocked as he chews on some kebab meat. “Why, you got weird stuff to hide?”

Eliott snorts. “No.”

Honestly, ever since he has outgrown that part of his life where drawing naked people was considered weird and a porn-like activity by most people, he hasn’t had anything specific to hide in his art, assuming anyone would even bother flicking through it. If Lucas is trying to frame him for something, he’s played the wrong card.

But as usual, Lucas is textbook definition of unapologetic. He shrugs, casual, unbothered, not even looking up from his food when he replies: “Then, yes. I was snooping around.”

Perhaps Eliott should have felt upset about it, but he also knows that it’s been barely a month and still he’s long passed the point of getting upset over Lucas’ non-existent politeness already. “You shouldn’t be so full of yourself when I know you never lock the door.”

“What are you gonna do?” Lucas snickers. “Go full-on commando mission while I’m peeing?”

“You literally were this close to skinning me alive, the day I walked in on you playing the piano,” Eliott counters.

“So you admit you were snooping.”

“I was not,” Eliott scoffs, picking up a few fries. “I didn’t expect anything interesting from you, for that matter.”

“What about now?” Eliott cocks an eyebrow, finding Lucas smirking at him. “Are you expecting something interesting now?”

He ponders his answer. “Depends,” he says carefully. “Are you going to let me hear you play?”

Lucas huffs, turning back to his kebab. “It’s not that interesting.”

“I thought I was supposed to be the judge of that.”

“I’m rusty, I haven’t played in years,” his neighbor waves, digging some more into his fries. “Consider yourself lucky I’m not playing with the sound on.”

The stubbornness of his tone sounds affected, like he’s putting up a front, but there’s something unyielding to it that makes Eliott back away. “Thanks. For the drawings,” he says after a moment. “See, this is when humans say ‘thank you’. In situations like these.”

Lucas munches on his fries some more, before swallowing audibly. “If I start saying thank you, I’ll never stop. It’s boring, it’s exhausting, it’s time-consuming.” He picks up his kebab from the Styrofoam box, and takes a large bite of the bread — a tad obnoxiously, like he’s yet again trying to make a point. “See it as yet another favor I’m doing you. Pretty sure me not saying thank you probably saves the planet, in the long run.”

Eliott shakes his head. “You’re the worst.”

**MARDI, 20:58**

**MERCREDI** **, 14:31**

In the end it takes only a little under 72h for Lucas to stop invading Eliott’s bathroom. Which isn’t so bad, he supposes, assuming the landlord hasn’t already filed a restraining order against Lucas after the sixteenth email.

“What if it was the middle of winter?”, Lucas had snapped this very morning, after dragging himself over literally fifteen minutes before Eliott was supposed to leave for work.

He’s still not sure whether his neighbor absolutely wanted that shower now or because he just needed to vent, but either way Eliott was forced to cut it short and begrudgingly leave his keys to Lucas. “Don’t you have a spare key like normal people do?”, he had the audacity to ask.

“Like you know what normal people do,” Eliott had thrown behind his shoulder before leaving.

Technically he’s right. That’d be a lot more convenient for everyone involved — Eliott, Lucas, the shower even. But one, he childishly doesn’t want to let Lucas think he forgot about the fit he threw when he asked for the _mailbox key_ , and two… Well, two, it’s at Idriss’, and it would be a little weird to barge in at his friend’s place to ask for the spare key back. Not to mention that his best friend has a big puppy energy when he sets his mind to it, and chances are that he gives him the ultimate puppy look until Eliott eventually caves and gives him a satisfying answer as to why suddenly he doesn’t trust him anymore — leave it to Idriss to put it that way.

The first thing Eliott notices, as soon as he steps inside Lucas’ apartment on his way home, is that his neighbor is (surprisingly) not alone; there’s a guy standing in the tiny kitchen, stretching as much as possible to be able to reach the water-heater fixated on the wall above the fridge. The second thing he sees is Lucas himself, nonchalantly perched on the small kitchen table, and it quickly sinks in that his back turned to the front door _isn’t_ the sole reason why he’s too absorbed to notice Eliott walking in. Far from it. His neighbor is actually far too busy trying to snap a good shot of the guy, who he can only assume is some sort of a plumber, to pay attention — and not just the guy, but mostly, _the guy’s ass_.

_Oh this is gold_ , Eliott snickers inwardly. Sometimes, he can swear that ever since he’s properly met this idiot living next door, his brain has undergone a very aggressive type of anti-aging surgical procedure. He tiptoes closer, until he’s close enough to whisper a taunting: “So, you’re into role-playing, uh?”

Lucas’ head snaps to the side, so fast Eliott is surprised he doesn’t hear his neck breaking in the process, and his phone nearly tumbles down from his hands. A sheer look of shock and… is that _betrayal_?, flashes through his eyes, making them widen comically for a split-second — which would have been _oh so funny_ , if the plumber didn’t have the exact same reaction.

Eliott winces, coughing a little, already ready to apologize when Lucas beats him to it.

(Well, sort of.)

(In a very Lallemant manner.)

“Fucking _shit_ ,” Lucas blurts out. “I’ll put a bell on you I swear to God!”

The plumber huffs with a small shake of his head and goes back to do whatever he was busing with before his interruption, and Eliott gives Lucas a small nudge with his shoulder. “Careful the list of your kinks is getting bigger,” he says teasingly, only for Lucas to hear.

His neighbor sends him a glare, face crumpling in his now-familiar scowl. “Fuck you.” He starts scrolling down his Instagram feed in an obvious attempt to look too busy to pay attention to him. “I have a virtual life I need to keep alive.”

Eliott hums, peering above his shoulder unabashedly — it’s not his fault his neighbor is rubbing off on him. Lucas hits the new publication icon, and without even skipping a bit, selects the picture of the plumber’s ass.

_I fucking can’t believe this guy_.

He stares in slight bewilderment as Lucas tries figuring out a caption for a while. 

“Never would have pegged you as an Instagram famous,” Eliott mutters.

Lucas twists his mouth, jaws setting under the smooth skin, and he throws an annoyed glance Eliott’s way. “5€,” he says, and Eliott has to admit he’s a tad surprised Lucas hasn’t already shoved him away with a snappy remark — isn’t he, like, a specialist of those? It must show that Eliott doesn’t get it, because he finally elaborates. “Every time you’re saying that you’d never have pegged me as this or that, I’m charging you 5€. And just so you know, I’m making it retroactive, so you owe me at least 15€. I’d prefer in cash but since I’m the nicest guy in town, I also accept free pizza.”

_Nicest_. Lucas surely is a bunch of things, some of those certainly qualifying for a first prize ribbon in a few categories, but _nice_ doesn’t even come close. He heaves out a long sigh, for good measure. “Fine, we will see about that this week.”

He’s got a few errands to run this afternoon and stuff to prepare tonight for his classes, anyway. _You must be the most overworked art teacher I’ve ever seen_ , Lucas has snickered once when he told him he was busy after work with _some_ _more_ work. Comments like these rank side by side with ‘you’re an art teacher how hard can it be?’ and ‘we weren’t doing shit when we were that age’. The answer to all three are one and the same, and can be summed up with two words: art history. Ever since they’ve incorporated art history to the program, a few years ago, it’s considerably thickened, and the workload right with it.

“That’s really the least you could do,” Lucas retorts haughtily.

“I can still withdraw my offer,” Eliott threatens, and Lucas huffs, checking his phone, still debating his caption option. Probably something cheeky and dumb and unapologetic, like the rest of him. “I can’t believe you’re going to post it.”

Lucas shrugs, his right shoulder nearly hitting him in the chin prompting Eliott to back away a little. “So what, it’s nice to look at.”

Okay, fair. Eliott steals a glance before looking away. The plumber isn’t exactly a sex-symbol, but he’s young and fit enough to make it interesting, in a way, and probably to distract you from eternal boredom. “So you have a handy-man kink,” he muses, waggling his eyebrows obnoxiously. “Worn-out shirt and dirty hands and all that.”

Lucas is already extending the middle finger in his direction before he’s even finished his sentence, and Eliott starts laughing quietly.

“I’ve seen your wardrobe, Mr. Holes-in-my-band-shirts, quit bragging.”

_Seen_ , Eliott snorts inwardly. The understatement of the year probably. He can’t begin to understand what fun there is to go through someone else’s clothes, but apparently Lucas’ curiosity has no limits. Good thing he’s a reasonable human being with nothing to hide.

“So that means you’ll stop invading my shower now?” he says, ignoring the jab.

“Your flat has never seen such a good-looking naked guy before, if anything _you_ should thank _me_.”

“Right,” he drawls. “Thanks then.” He eventually hands him the envelope he’d retrieved from his mailbox before climbing upstairs — the actual reason he came here in the first place.

Lucas glances at him sideway, picking the letter wordlessly with only a vague hum as a thank you.

Eliott pulls away from his personal space. “I’ll leave you to your exciting social media persona.”

Lucas makes a face. “You’re such a judging asshole.”

“I’ll start charging you right back for every insult,” Eliott fires back from the entrance, already pulling the door open.

“It’s not an insult if there’s truth to it!” Lucas yells as he steps outside, before the door shuts itself closed.

**JEUDI, 23:58**

**VENDREDI, 18:04**

There’s someone knocking at the door.

Once, twice, fifteen times.

It’s late in the afternoon, and he’s exhausted, and he knows he shouldn’t be laying on his bed at the moment, no. He shouldn’t even be home. Or perhaps barely making it here. What time is it anyway? He slightly moves his head, tilting it back a little to give a tired look to his alarm clock.

_18:04_.

Shit. It’s been at least six hours since he sat there.

Six fucking hours.

Truth is, he already knew it wouldn’t work before he even opened his eyes yesterday morning, and he wasn’t mistaken. The past two days have come and gone in a bit of a blur, with the all-too-familiar soul-crushing exhaustion he gets when it’s one of those days — the bad ones. Dragging himself out of bed and into the shower took him nearly a whole hour yesterday, his brain and his body teaming up surprisingly efficiently to make it so hard an accomplishment he can’t even tell whether or not he worked up the physical strength to soap himself up.

The hardest part was to call-in sick, as usual.

The first time something like this happened to him was two years ago, the week before Christmas break. Ever since the spectacular breakdown he had gotten as a graduation gift from his brain, early into the summer, things had been looking up, slowly but steadily. Enough for Eliott to be able to grant himself the ultimate luxury, when September came and his first job, to keep his mental health under wraps — or so he had thought. Countless testimonies and studies online were recommending him to think twice about disclosing his disorder to his supervisors, for the sake of avoiding a wave of disapproval from colleagues and parents alike, that would surely be nothing short of bullying. 

For three months, he had thought it would work well enough like that. He was stable, and with the right medication and regular therapy sessions, it hadn’t seemed too far-fetched to think he had things under control. Naïve? Perhaps. But not too far-fetched.

And then, out of the blue, there had been this morning where he just couldn’t get up.

Three, four hours spent avoiding the school trying to reach him to know where the fuck he was, because his first class was right on the first period and he had been a no-show. It was adult life, he had admonished himself, he couldn’t just _do_ that. But then there was the phonecall he was paralyzed at the thought of making, because he just couldn’t deal with the idea of having to put his failure into words. To actually tell his supervisors, the fucking _principal_ , how much of a fuck-up he was.

In the end his mom had to call for him, if only so that he could start breathing a little bit more normally, and the response from the school hadn’t been that bad. The CPE had been understanding and showed appropriate concern, and eventually reassured him that choosing not to speak up was absolutely not illegal, only perhaps a little unpractical. _Mostly for you,_ she had pointed out, when he had managed to talk with her. One would think that it’s easier now — now he’s more at ease at his workplace, now that he knows it’s okay, now that he knows they’re pretty understanding for the situation. But it’s not, and it stings, and in moments like these, living by himself is always the worst decision he’s ever made.

Outside the knocks are getting more pressuring, more demanding. Sharper, firmer, each one of them making his skin crawl a little bit more.

He’s feeling a little bit better than yesterday, enough to wake up and shower and drink some coffee in the morning, but that’s as far as he’s been able to go for now. Dealing with an extra human being at the moment would just challenge the little progress he’s made for the past 24h — but still the knocks persist, unwavering, not missing a beat in-between.

Anyone would just assume he’s not home, except that-

“Hey, I know you’re here,” someone groans from the hallway and Eliott closes his eyes slowly, letting out a quiet breath that’s not quite a sigh. “ _Eliott_.”

He braces himself enough to get up from his bed, limbs heavy and non-existent balance sending his shoulder crashing on slow-motion against the nearest wall, as he pads closer to the entrance. When he cracks the door open, it doesn’t come as a surprise that Lucas is standing behind; it doesn’t come as a surprise either that he’s still denying his poor valid ankle any assistance from his crutches.

“I knew you were in there,” is the first thing he says, matter-of-factly.

Eliott swallows, making a supreme effort to open his mouth to talk. It feels just right to have his lips sealed together at the moment, why does he have to bother? Because Lucas has decided now is as good a time as any to taunt him? “Look, Lucas,” he says, voice husky barely echoing in the silent hallway, “it’s really not-”

“It’s Friday,” Lucas cuts him off, infuriatingly fast. “I checked, this time.”

_What_?

He finds himself staring, not really in the right frame of mind to start questioning Lucas’ weird antics. He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get why his neighbor is standing here, he doesn’t get why it’s even important for him to bug him enough to open the damn door if he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t get _why_ Friday should be a big deal at all.

“I can’t deal with you right now,” Eliott replies, not bothering to hide the snappiness in his voice.

Lucas hobbles a little on the spot, before resting a hand on the wall next to the door and his cast on his socked, valid foot. “It’s Friday,” he says again, “and yesterday it was Thursday. You work on Thursdays, right?” He doesn’t even wait for Eliott to produce a single sound before he adds: “And now it’s _Friday_ , and I swear you look terrible.”

Eliott finds himself staring into deep-blue eyes, at loss of a valid answer.

The rambling isn’t quite Lucas-like, and even if he feels a lot like slamming the door in his face for even sounding like one of those morally-judging assholes who expects the rest of the world to be fucking performative at all times-

It hits him like a ton of bricks, the moment he makes up a nervous twitch of Lucas’ eyebrow.

_He cares_. Fuck.

Lucas Lallemant fucking cares. He’s not asking the real questions, of course, but they hang in the air, heavy and palpable, so much it makes Eliott’s head spin a little. _You okay? Why weren’t you at work? Why didn’t you answer? Why are you home?_

“I’m sorry,” Eliott says, his voice growing suddenly weaker.

It’s not quite what he wanted to say, but he doesn’t know what else to do. Lucas cares, and now there’s just one more person he gets to disappoint. Fucking fantastic.

Lucas seems like he’s about to say something, frowning a little like he isn’t quite satisfied with the answer, but it passes quickly. The nervous twitch is gone, and instead he eyes him from head to toe, taking in Eliott’s college-old sweats and hoodie. “I was thinking about getting the pizza you owe me tonight,” he says after a while. “You’re in?”

Eliott casts bleary eyes on him. “Look, I told you I can’t talk right now. Is that too hard to understand or what?” _I don’t want to pretend._ Just for tonight, he doesn’t want to have to pretend. To be okay, to be functional, to be fucking normal, like everything is fucking fine and Lucas is the fucking center of the world. Because that’s what it will come down to, and he just can’t take it.

Lucas nods slowly. “Fine,” he shrugs, a tad flippant, a tad stiffy. “Raincheck then.”

And with that he pulls himself away from the door, hopping his way to his flat without a look back.

**VENDREDI, 22:41**


	4. Chapter 4

**SAMEDI, 09:32**

**SAMEDI, 10:19**

Dragging yourself next door tends to be a little tricky, when the point of your visit is to apologize for having been an ass mere hours ago. Even without particularly putting himself down, or being overly dramatic for that matter, there’s just one thing he can’t stop thinking about; what are the odds that whatever status quo they’ve managed to reach with Lucas cannot survive a non-explanation like he’s planning to serve?

_Oh hey, I told you to fuck off yesterday, but I don’t have a good reason so you’ll have to accept it._

Awesome. Although, sure, not that Lucas isn’t a huge specialist of that kind of behavior himself, but… Well, he’s not Lucas. And there’s a part of him that is absolutely relieved about that particular fact, to be honest, so it’s not to start acting like he’s been raised by the wolves too.

He goes through his morning routine like he’s on automatic pilot; an improvement if there’s one considering he kept things to the barest minimum for the past two days. He lets the scorching hot water run down for a bit longer than usual, puffs of steam dancing in the air as he tries to collect himself enough to sort out his priorities. Lucas is only a part of the social interactions he needs to make today; his parents will end up taking down the door if he doesn’t find a way to give them a call for the third day in a row, no matter that he’s supposed to get lunch with them the next day, and he has an early afternoon appointment with his therapist.

As for ghosting Idriss and Sofiane…

Well, it officially qualifies him as the worst friend in the whole wide world, he guesses. It’s never been a mystery that he goes through phases where he just needs a little bit more alone time, but it’s never been quite so obvious before and the worst part is that he can’t bring himself to feel bad about it. _Fuck_. He really, really is an asshole. He’s still trying to figure out how he’s going to make it all as little emotionally draining as possible while drying himself off when he hears it first.

Piano music.

A slow melody is filling the quietness of their building, soft ripples hanging in the air, a little muted by the bathroom door and the wall connecting his flat to the next. Quietly, he sticks his head outside of the bathroom — not completely, just a little, as if he’s afraid Lucas might see him steal a glance from the other side of the wall.

For a moment he just stays there. Thinking about proud, cocky, closed-off Lucas, about that time he’s dismissed any idea of real talent. Discarding the thought, sweeping it away with so much indifference that it could only come off as forced. Affected. And yet here he is.

Being annoyingly good to the point of frustration.

Rumpling the towel, Eliott starts rummaging through his pile of semi-clean clothes to grab a wrinkled tee-shirt and a pair of sweats, hair a damp mess aggressively sticking everywhere — but he’s hoping Lucas of all people will have the decency not to make a remark about that. The music is still going when he finds himself behind his neighbor’s door, but the notes are getting softer, lighter, like it’s nearing its end. Assuming Lucas has started the same song over a few times, his window of action is a little short, and so he jumps right in, before he gets caught up again.

(The last thing he wants is for Lucas to tear him into pieces like the other day.)

“Look who’s learned to knock,” Lucas says, unbothered, from his spot on his bed. His eyes don’t even leave the keys, and Eliott can’t help but notice that he looks almost too focused for someone presumably so talented.

“One of us has to be responsible, I guess,” he mumbles, padding inside.

Does that make him really so predictable? Is he supposed to be upset that not even once, Lucas seems to have thought about feeling bad for intruding at all himself? Five words. Literally. His neighbor has said a total of five words and somehow, he’s already managed to strike a nerve.

Not everyone can pride themselves on possessing an ability like that, he thinks sarcastically.

Calm the fuck down.

That’s the opposite of what he’s come here for. And he’s long figured now that Lucas is absolutely hermetic to any kind of guilt or self-reflecting, so it’s not like it comes as a shocker either — but he just can’t help it. His nerves feel a bit too raw at the moment to pretend everything was fine. Maybe coming here now wasn’t-

Lucas’ fingers slowly graze a few keys, randomly at first, then slowly ease into what sounds like a melody, another song, precise and controlled. It’s effortless, cheekily so, beautiful and soothing, bouncing back against the wall like an invisible, Ghibli-like musical spirit hungrily pacing the room.

Eliott twists his mouth, taking advantage of a few quiet notes to let out a small: “Rusty, uh?”

Still not looking up, hands hovering on the keyboard expertly, Lucas offers a casual shrug in response. “It’s coming back,” he says offhandedly.

“Modesty doesn’t really suit you.”

The words slip past Eliott’s lips before he can even think them through, and finally, Lucas’ hands slow down, deep blue eyes looking up. It takes everything in Eliott’s power not to squirm, as he fries under his gaze for a good minute. There’s something weirdly close to deep wonder on Lucas’ face. None of the usual arrogance laced with crankiness that’s his default option; it feels weird. A tad alien.

Eliott clears his throat a little, finding himself straining to pursue the conversation without really knowing why. Maybe because it’s difficult to go on with a script that seems to have been written for two, when only one of them is bothering to play his part.

“Watch me start piano covers on YouTube,” Lucas deadpans.

“People would go crazy.”

Another shrug. Another flippant wave of the hand. Another casual dismissal. “Whatever,” Lucas huffs, letting his fingers run over the keys. “It doesn’t sound nearly as good as a real piano anyway.” His voice trails off, but even that sounds strangely casual.

No bitterness, no regret, just a good old platitude.

Eliott hums in response, sliding his hands into the pockets of his sweats as he rests his shoulder against the thin plasterboard wall dividing the kitchen space and the living-room area. He nibbles at his bottom lip for a handful of seconds before he manages to brace himself enough to say: “Hey, about yesterday, I…”

“It’s fine,” Lucas says, frowning at a few notes probably coming out wrong.

There’s a tiny part of Eliott that wants to grab the keyboard and throw it out the window, just so that Lucas finally pays attention to him long enough to have this conversation. His current need for absolution for something as stupid as snapping is at war with some other needs of his — for Lucas to take him seriously, perhaps, if only this one time.

“No, it’s not,” Eliott protests.

“Eliott, for fuck’s sake, you told me to fuck off,” Lucas eventually snaps, eyes jumping on him, and for a second Eliott feels an invisible grip tighten around his stomach. _You told me to fuck off, what did you expect?_ , his brain supplies, and fuck maybe he was right, maybe- But no, Lucas just lets out a snort, shaking his head. “I’m not going to burst into tears, relax. I’ve got a thicker skin than that, and so do you. We’re good.”

“We’re good,” Eliott repeats, a little lost.

“Yes, that’s what I just said.” He sounds vaguely annoyed, and eventually he heaves a sigh, holding out his hand. “Give me your phone.” Eliott’s brow furrows in confusion, fingers circling around his phone in his pocket but not quite sure what to do just yet. Lucas stares at him intently, an eyebrow cocked, wriggling his fingers. “Your phone, give it to me.”

Eliott does as he’s told, muscle memory remembering to unlock it at the last second. Lucas starts typing something, scrolling, typing some more. “Jesus, how many Instagram accounts do you have,” he mutters.

“I, uh. I got a private one and a public one?” It sounds a little like a question, but he doesn’t really get where this is headed until Lucas hands him back his phone.

“There. You’re following me on Instagram, on Facebook, and you even have my number. No more excuse not to send a ‘not dead, fuck you’ next time you’re not feeling like talking, so that I know you’re, like, not dead,” he just says, sounding nearly serious for a moment, before he catches himself. “I mean, just so I know I don’t have to worry about the smell. Or people asking me how the fuck did I not know there was a body rotting next door for months.”

Eliott fingers wrap tightly around his phone, a groan coming out from his throat. “You just won another contact name,” he says, trying to sound more assured than he’s feeling, with his wrinkled clothes, the bags under his eyes and his scratchy, scratchy voice.

Lucas looks up. “And what’s that?”

“Spikey bastard,” Eliott replies, feeling inspired all of a sudden. He’s already unlocking his phone to replace Lucas with the more poetic version of his name, when he glances up to find his neighbor smirking.

“Make it Spikey Asshole. I’ve got a reputation to keep.”

**SAMEDI, 21:41**

**MARDI, 17:59**

“Okay so we’re doing this now?”, Lucas mutters, the moment Eliott drops himself on the bed next to him, slouching into the mattress with a not-so-delicate ‘humf’.

Part of it is because he’s been squished in the subway for like, forever, and then walking home to find so many stairs to climb was just the cherry on top after a full day, where the bigger part of his lunch break had been spent trying to reach his second workplace in time. The other part is simply capitalizing on riling Lucas up just enough for it to be fun.s

“I’m still playing mailman for you,” Eliott grumbles, tearing his eyes away from the TV screen fixated on the wall, only to find Lucas nursing half an empty bottle of vodka. “Wait, are you _drunk_?”

“Not a fucking chance.” He waves the bottle. “It’s all I have left, because my life is a pathetic, miserable, constant fuck-up, and they don’t let me order liquor online so here I am, trying desperately to get drunk on- what?” He looks at the bottle, brows knitting together as he squints. “25cl? What would you say?”

Before Eliott can even reply, Lucas shoves the bottle right under his nose. “I’d say you’re well on the way, even with half a bottle,” Eliott comments, wrapping his fingers around the neck and cocking an eyebrow as he pretends to examine the beverage inside.

Lucas lets out a strange mix between a scoff and a groan, snatching the vodka from Eliott’s hands like he hasn’t handed it to him five seconds ago. “Not nearly enough, my friend.”

Since when did we become friends, Eliott snorts to himself, but he can only guess that… Okay. Maybe they are. Friends, that is. In a weird, passive-aggressive way. Where constantly telling the other to fuck off is their main way of communicating. Take yesterday morning, for instance. He was diving into his 6h20 morning coffee — black, like his mood and a good portion of his wardrobe — when Lucas invited himself over for breakfast with an ever so polite ‘Fuck off, I’m not in the mood’.

(Simply because Eliott greeted him with a ‘You do know I don’t just wake up at 6 to watch the sun rise, right?’)

(Rude.)

It takes a few more frames of some random male character on screen for Eliott’s brain to finally catch up on the program on TV. Grey’s Anatomy, uh. It sounds a bit tasteless, for someone so prone on whining about being stuck in a cast and delaying his medical check-ups, but Lucas apparently doesn’t seem to mind.

“Hey, you do have alcohol though,” he says after a while, and Eliott turns a blank look on him. “I saw it when I was going through your stuff, you’ve got like two bottles waiting.”

Honestly? Eliott would be upset if it wasn’t so sad to witness. Lucas is looking weirdly alive when on the verge of drunk, Eliott is starting to figure, but he’s not letting himself be fooled; his neighbor’s hair, that has grown so much in the past few weeks he’s probably a few days away from being able to tie it back, is sticking at weird angles like a reminder of those 2000s hair product commercials, and there’s a yellow stain on his grey, beyond-repair-wrinkled tee-shirt. Not to mention that the air in the flat feels thick and stuffy, like he hasn’t opened the window in a while, in spite of the warm weather of the past few days.

No wonder why Lucas is getting so worked up, Eliott snorts humorlessly to himself, already fishing for his keys in his jeans pocket. “You want to drink, you get the drink,” he simply says, shoving them in Lucas’ hand.

He’s half expecting him to try to worm his way out of this, to pretext that he’s injured, and how does Eliott dare to even suggest for him to go, but instead Lucas starts scrambling in his bed, pushing Eliott’s legs unceremoniously out of the way to get up. Since he’s enough of a moron to prefer tempting karma with his valid ankle, he limps past his crutches leaned up against the wall, which draws an eyeroll from Eliott. Not that Lucas even sees it. Or that he would care. He’s far too busy hoping his way through his flat, hammering his way over to the kitchen cabinet where Eliott keeps the two bottles of tequila his sister brought back from Spain.

In his hast to leave, Lucas has made no threat about the remnants of vodka, so naturally, Eliott considers the bottle sitting next to him for a second, then grabs it. Taking a generous swig, he distractedly looks up at the screen, where Meredith Grey is finding herself yet again trapped in the throes of the umpteenth redo of the love triangle trope. One would think there’s a shortage of situations like this that you can choose to put your main character through, but apparently no.

He hears a few clinking sounds next door, some rattles, then Lucas’ now familiar thumping footsteps, soon followed by the keys jingling against the front door as he locks it behind himself — so he really is just trying to make a point with his own, dumb door, uh.

“Can’t even remember the last time I watched Grey’s Anatomy,” Eliott observes when Lucas’ disheveled head popped up in the doorframe.

He shrugs in response, kicking the door shut then hopping his way back to the bed. “When it was still good, like everybody else I guess.”

Eliott hums in response, leaning to the side to leave him some space to climb back in.

“I keep the vodka.”

“I thought drinking in the middle of the week was pathetic,” Lucas snickers, opening the bottle of tequila he’s just brought back.

“What the fuck, I never said that.”

“Your face did.” Lucas snorts, taking a swig of tequila. “Now shut up, I’m trying to see if she’s gonna bone the hot one.”

Eliott peers back at the screen, frowning obnoxiously. “There’s a hot one?”

He hasn’t seen more than one known face on screen so far, and no one has struck him as interesting enough to even bother paying attention to the cringy French voices, but apparently Lucas is getting strangely defensive of this new-found obsession of his — assuming it’s even new.

“You’ve got no fucking taste.”

Eliott starts laughing. “Oh yeah, because the plumber was _such_ a catch.”

“He was a six, could be worst.”

You’ve got to be kidding me, nearly slips past his lips. So not only is Lucas the kind to shamelessly snap a picture of someone’s ass, but he’s also the kind to give people a ranking based on their looks. If Eliott hadn’t already been expecting precisely nothing from him, that would be certainly a serious blow.

But he’s not. So it’s probably fine, he guesses. He shakes his head with a disgusted frown anyway. “How much more cliché can you be.”

Lucas barely spares him a glance. “You’re, like, an eight or a nine with no taste, you’ve got no advice to give.”

“I wasn’t planning on giving any.” He starts rolling the vodka bottle between his hands, making the content sway a little from left to right. “You know, there are times where I buy your asshole behavior and some where I just can’t.”

“I tried being nice,” Lucas says, not tearing his eyes away from the screen, “but when the world screws you over a bunch of times, at some point you’re just done.”

**MARDI, 23:41**

“We’re not playing truth or dare.”

He doesn’t really know how long he’s been there when Lucas first starts hinting at it, but he’s positive that the Grey’s Anatomy episode on TV ended a few hours ago. Now it’s dark outside, faraway buildings lost in the night peeking out at the corner of the window like hundreds of fireflies. The bottle of tequila is sitting between them, close to half-empty, several bags of crisps littering the navy-blue comforter.

Honestly?

Eliott is feeling great.

More than great. Terribly good.

He’s warm and good and buzzing. Just enough to find himself smiling in-between two bites, even when Lucas is being an immature idiot who should most definitely have been getting on his nerves.

“Truth or drink,” Lucas corrects, diving a salt and crumbs covered hand into his bag of Monster Munches.

Eliott groans, tilting his head back at a 90° angle to pour the last few crumbs of his own Vico bag directly in his mouth, before crumpling it loudly. “Whatever. We’re not 13.” He’s already spending his days with those fine specimens, it’s he’s not to start acting like them behind doors, thank you very much.

“If you were so scared when you were 13, it must have been boring as fuck to be your friend.”

“I’m not scared,” he retorts, not shying away from Lucas’ daring smirk.

Thing is, he knows he’s playing him like a fiddle. But he doesn’t really care. Maybe he likes it that way, even. Maybe he secretly likes this part of him, of them, that’s playful and bold and absolutely doesn’t give a shit all at once — and maybe not even so secretly. “Fine, but I’ll start,” he says with a sigh, clasping his hands together to get rid of some crumbs, and Lucas makes an appreciative noise. Straightening his back against the wall, he grabs the bottle and points it at Lucas. “Why did you stop playing the piano?”

Lucas scorns, pushing the bottle away from his face. “When I first moved out, I didn’t have one, is all,” he says casually, in an all-too-familiar, no shit-given, no-hard-feelings manner that doesn’t quite fit with what Eliott has pieced together about Lucas’ personality. As if to make it more convincing, Lucas adds, tongue thicker than usual: “Not everything has a deep, deep explanation. Same reason why the only time I saw you get all artsy was when you drew on my cast. Life gets in the way.”

Life gets in the way. Is that what it is?, Eliott wonders inwardly. He didn’t expect Lucas’ words to strike a chord, and now he finds himself on the verge of the dangerous precipice of second-guessing. His choices, his life. Because he’s right, uh? Art used to be everything to him, he’s been drawing and drawing and drawing, for as long as he can remember, for as long as he’s even been able to hold a pencil, and then-

 _Fuck off_ , he grumbles to himself, slumping back a little against the wall. He used to be a fun drunk but apparently, no more.

Lucas grabs the bottle from his hands, blissfully unaware of the fire he’s started. “My turn. What was your last break-up about?”

It takes a few seconds for Eliott to rack his brain for the answer. He has a very bad memory; after a year or so things just start blurring a little together, but he tries for the sake of the game. Objectively the last person he’s been seeing is Alice. Nice girl, a little bit buzzing. She majored in tourism and he met her through Sofiane, after they spent six months working together in Australia during the semester he spent abroad. After a while, maybe three months, she managed to get a visa for New Zealand, her long-dreamed destination, and that was left to that.

No tears, no heartbreak, just a farewell sex-marathon and a pat in the back before she started packing to leave. Sure she’ll sometimes give a like here and there on his Instagram publications (private and public accounts alike), and they’ll exchange a brief text or two to celebrate New Year’s Day — but that’s mostly it.

“We just stopped seeing each other. I wasn’t really into her, she was pretty chill, simple as that,” he says nonchalantly. _Not everything has a deep, deep explanation,_ he almost adds, but instead, he grabs the bottle from Lucas’ hands. So far it’s a pretty fair game, but something tells him he won’t have Lucas agreeing to open up so often. “Why are you not talking to your friends?”, he asks after a moment of reflection.

Lucas gives him a look, blue eyes a bit glassy. “How can you know I’m not,” he bites back easily.

“You’re not replying to their comments on your publications.”

A Cheshire-cat-like grin show up on Lucas’ face. “Now who’s a creep,” he coos mockingly.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Eliott counters, sitting up and leaning forward until his elbows rest on his thighs. _I have all the time in the world_ , he doesn’t say, but something flickering in Lucas’ eyes makes him think he’s fully aware of it no matter what.

Lucas looks away, smile vanishing as he sends a death glare to the floor. “You were right it’s a dumb game.”

“You insisted we played though,” Eliott sing-songs mercilessly.

“I already said you were right,” Lucas barks, “what more do you need?”

Eliott glances at him for a moment, his grumpy face and his glassy eyes, lips a tight line and arms crossed on his chest. _I don’t wanna eat my vegetables_ , his position screams, textbook definition of tantrum in the making. But still, he doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol making him dumb or brave, he pushes a little bit more. “The truth.” Then he hands the bottle over. “Or if you’re really, _really_ boring, just a sip will do.”

The funny part is that he didn’t think much about this whole thing — Lucas’ friends — before, not ever since his neighbor has told him about them being on his case. But now it’s clear there’s more to it, and it makes him want to go in for the kill.

For a moment they just stare at each other from each side of the bed, legs meeting in the middle in a strange rendition of a no-man’s land, not even batting an eye in the weird contest Eliott has initiated God knows why. _Why do you even care?_ It’s not even like he needs this information to keep on living, it’s just that… yeah, okay. Maybe he’s curious. Maybe he wants to know more than just Lucas’ favorite insults.

Lucas eyes him darkly, snatching the bottle from Eliott’s hand, and he seems to decipher whether or not to sidestep the question with a sip as he inspects the label on it. “I got cheated on,” he says, voice a low rumble as he glares at the bottle. “My boyfriend of three years cheated and I lost my shit. I snapped. I flipped. A fucking Taylor Swift song.” A bitter snort escapes his lips and he shakes his head. “And the guys? They wouldn’t get it. Well, they did at first, you know? Offered a shoulder to cry on and tried to cheer me up and all, but then I got a rebound guy, and another one, and then Valentin came along, and every time I broke up with them, or that they broke up with me, _my best friends_ would just keep saying it was my fucking fault. That I was being controlling and possessive and shit. That cheating was just a part of life and figuring shit and…” Lucas’ voice trails off, going quieter when he starts talking again. “Things feel different now. Weird. It’s just not the same anymore,” he says, like he’s trying really hard to calm the fuck down.

He grabs the bottle by the neck and takes a swig, not caring about the rules anymore apparently — Eliott can’t blame him.

“Did you stalk me?” he asks after a while. “Online I mean.”

“Last I remember, you're the one who made me follow you, I never asked for it,” Eliott deadpans.

“No one forced you to even take a look, though.”

He huffs in return. _Touché_. “Fine, I wanted to see if you were enough of an asshole to post the plumber pic,” he shrugs eventually. “So guess I did lurk around a little.”

“You’re just as bad as me, admit it,” Lucas snickers.

 _Oh really._ “Alright,” Eliott says, not even batting an eye. “Worst sex you’ve ever had then.”

Now that should be fun. Something twinkles in Lucas’ eye, but he makes a show of trying to come up with an answer — well, Eliott thinks he does, at least. “My ex,” he says slowly. “Well, Kevin. The, like, most serious one.”

“You dated a _Kevin_.”

“Do you want the story or not?”, Lucas retorts with a click of his tongue, and Eliott vaguely waves with his hand, as if to say be my guest. “Once we were really wasted and we ended up doing it against the wall, but like. The kind of wasted where you can’t really stand still or hold your own weight.” He absently pulls at his sweaters sleeve, and Eliott lets out a ‘no’ in compassion. “We tried to make it work but it just wouldn’t do it you know, and then we slipped and fell, and Kev literally started crying, saying that his dick was broken and all. Had to blow him to show him it wasn’t broken. Well, lemme tell you, it’s super fucking weird to blow someone who’s sobbing like an idiot.”

And well, that’s pretty much when Eliott loses it, although he was already trying to swallow down his laughter since he heard the first part of the explanation. He can’t help it, and he knows he should feel sorry for Lucas, or Kevin, or both, but it’s just-

It doesn’t work, sue him. Maybe he’s truly as bad as Lucas.

 _Shit_.

Of course Eliott’s act of rebellion ends up having consequences. He knows about that even before Lucas obnoxiously waggles his eyebrows and asks him how many people he’s slept with. That too calls for some mental gymnastics, but ultimately he gives a mumbled answer. Seven. It’s not the truth. Not quite. Not close. But he doesn’t want to explain, and he doesn’t want Lucas to judge, and he doesn’t want him to laugh — he especially doesn’t want him to praise him, or whatever awkward reaction some random guy would get.

“A true romantic, uh?” Lucas snickers.

Eliott grabs the bottle from his hands. “Shut up, my turn.”

**MERCREDI, 01:17**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys!! i hope you're doing okay in these trying times 💖  
> this chapter is a little longer than the others and frankly my favorite, so i hope you'll enjoy it as much as i do! 🤗💕  
> (flashing TW at the very end ⚠)

**MERCREDI, 10:34**

**MERCREDI, 13:12**

“You’re not allowed inside,” is the first thing Lucas says (or rather, _growls_ ), right after opening the door.

Maybe it’s Eliott’s fault for trying to act like a civilized person for once, because now Lucas is standing in the doorway, as firmly planted as he can with only one valid leg and the face of someone who’s probably been throwing up first thing that morning.

Which was exactly how he felt when he woke up, and that Lucas threatened to murder him if he threw up in his flat. Turns out waking up with Lucas went as good as you could expect it — harsh, brutal, unexpected and nearly bruising. Mostly because it’s not technically Eliott’s alarm that woke him up, but rather the sharp kick in the ribs that Lucas granted him, when he took a minute too long to stir awake.

“Your alarm,” he had groaned gruffly, ever so sweet and charming. It was followed, not a full minute later Eliott was practically sure, by a: “Are you planning on getting the fuck up to turn it off or what?”

And, look, hear him out. Dealing with him on a daily basis requires a bit of mental preparation, even when you’re slowly getting used to the crappy behavior and overall whininess. But a hammer pounding against his frontal lobe tends to make it a little more difficult to come up with an inspired and witty come-back — and makes it downright impossible to take the high road.

“Don’t be a dick, it’s all your fault,” Eliott had grumbled in response, rubbing his face with both hands while his alarm was still nagging him in the background.

It’s not that getting shitfaced wasn’t on the shortlist of things he desperately _needed_ , but the aftermath, not to so much. He’s not even exaggerating when he says he’s spent half of his morning in the storage room, because he truly did. Desperately trying to hold onto his sanity as the sound volume of his students kept climbing up with every new period. Most of last night remains blurry enough to make it difficult to piece it all back together, but he does remember a bunch of stuff happening, even without the right order.

For instance, he definitely remembers that the truth or drink ersatz of a game stretched out long enough for them to unleash a few interesting facts. Like Eliott asking, against all odds: “What’s the last thing that turned you on?”

To what Lucas had replied, slurring a little: “Flicking through 6-inch dildos online.” Then he had let out a breathy giggle, dropping himself to the side: “That’s right, I’m popping a boner over plastic toys now.”

And after that-

Well after that it could only go downhill right?

In clear retaliation, Eliott was asked the size question, and he had apparently enough liquid courage to reply a cocky ‘ _bigger than your plastic friends’_ , which was only one of the very, very bad decisions his alcohol-filled brain apparently made last night. The only worst thing than replying that would be if it had been punctuated by a wink.

Which he also did.

Jesus.

If the chances for Lucas to remember that particular part weren’t so slim, he’d be tempted to feel embarrassed. But a single glance at him right now makes it sound very unlikely.

Eliott grins innocently. “I thought it was the kitchen only.”

“We live in shoeboxes,” Lucas scowls in response. “The kitchen is _half_ the surface already.”

He huffs, shaking his head. Who would have thought that after this charming bonding time last night and riding similar headaches they’d be back to square one now? He exhumes the plastic bag he’s shoved in his messenger bag a few moments ago to hand it to him.

“I figured you check all the thirteen-year-old boxes, so candies should be fine,” Eliott says with a small shrug. The upside of having a bakery right across the street at his workplace; he can sometimes indulge his inner 8-year-old self and not even having to feel bad about eating the whole bag before even making it home.

Lucas considers it for a moment, like Eliott’s somehow already tried to poison him before.

(Alright, to be fair, Lucas _did_ vomit last night when he tasted what Eliott had tried to cook.)

(But Lucas had insisted, so it’s on him.)

“Just go fuck yourself already,” Lucas retorts snappily, snatching the plastic bag from his hand.

And-

Okay. Eliott isn’t dumb. He’s not a fragile little thing, getting upset easily for the smallest reason — if anything, he’s long made peace with Lucas’ terrible sense of sympathy. But right now, all this attitude doesn’t sit well with him. Maybe he’s gotten soft, sue him. Maybe he’s misinterpreted Lucas’ particularly groundbreaking openness the night before for something it wasn’t. Maybe he falsely believed they were somewhat friends, when in fact the closest they’ve ever gotten from appreciating each other was when they were too tipsy to pay attention.

But _still._

“Hey,” he calls out, tilting his head to the side. “What’s wrong?”

Lucas’ grip tightens around plastic bag, his other hand gripping the door stubbornly, like he’s deciphering whether or not to end the conversation here. “I fucking hate it here,” Lucas blurts out. “I’m losing my fucking mind, happy? The walls are getting closer. Literally. I’m 100% sure this place was bigger when I first moved in, someone is pushing the walls together and it’s not fucking funny because apparently it triggers shit in me and you probably shouldn’t be here right now unless you want to get stabbed.”

“Then go outside,” Eliott suggests.

Lucas snickers, but it comes out bitter as he sarcastically wriggles his casted leg. “The brightest of them all, uh?”

“I _know_ you have a cast,” Eliott retorts, barely restraining an eyeroll. “I’m just saying _if_ you’re feeling so bad maybe it’s time to make it downstairs for a whiff of fresh air. You know, just walking around the block and then get back here.”

“I didn’t wait for your amazing ideas to go downstairs, you absolute genius,” Lucas snaps. “I had to drag my ass to a medical appointment the other day and I thought I was going to pass out from exhaustion on the way back.”

“Fine, what if I help you?”

“I already have another check-up at the end of the week,” Lucas replies stubbornly. “I’m not going to try my luck twice.”

 _Stubborn Lucas_. That he can handle.

Well, at least he thinks so.

“Look, do you want me to come with you or not,” Eliott sighs heavily, crossing his arms on his chest.

“It’s on _Friday_ ,” Lucas bites back, accentuating the word just to make it sound like Eliott’s the biggest moron he’s ever seen and _oh my God why is it still talking?_

“Well, yes, and coincidentally, I _also_ have a free afternoon,” Eliott said sternly. Three of his classes are going to some WWII exhibit and although he’s promised Idriss and Imane to help set up the wedding anniversary of the Bakhellals’, he can probably squeeze in Lucas’ appointment before.

It seems to catch Lucas off-guard. For the tiniest second he stands there, then twists his mouth. “Fine,” he says stiffly. “You _can_ come. But you’d better not embarrass me.”

And with that he slams the door shut.

**VENDREDI, 15:24**

It’s been forty-five minutes since Lucas has climbed into the elevator to go wandering through the floors to find his doctor, and Eliott is still waiting there like a moron, sitting in the middle of the hall on his uncomfortable squeaky seat. Wondering why he’s even doing it, because clearly, if hanging out with Lucas has taught him one thing, it’s that he shouldn’t be holding his breath for a ‘thank you’.

The Ambroise-Paré Hospital isn’t even located in Paris itself, but in Boulogne-Billancourt, which Eliott only found out about the moment they were supposed to leave, courtesy to Lucas vaguely mumbling this _tiny_ detail after crankily agreeing to greet him. Leave it to Lucas Lallemant to manage to get an appointment literally _on the other side_ of Paris — thus turning Eliott’s good-hearted suggestion into an exhausting, near hour-long trip to the hospital.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to come,” Lucas had retorted, when Eliott asked him _why_ the fuck he hadn’t bothered giving him this piece of information beforehand.

He had been this close to telling him that it shouldn’t have been a problem, considering Lucas was acting like he couldn’t care less whether Eliott was there or not, but he chose to keep it for himself, for a reason that wasn’t entirely known even to him. Okay, maybe it has to do with the fact that Lucas looks a bit like a mess at the moment, with his overgrown hair and no less than three different rows of dark circles under his eyes. If they weren’t so desperately symmetrical and with the exact same shade of color, he would be tempted to believe he’s yet again managed to hurt himself in some way.

He’s pulled out from his thoughts when the elevator doors roll open, eyes trailing to see Lucas limping his way out of the metal box. His crutches click obnoxiously loudly on the plastic floor, and Eliott wonders if the look of irritation in Lucas’ deep blue eyes isn’t precisely because it’s absolutely impossible for him to forget about it.

Eliott gives him a nod in acknowledgement. “So? What did she say?”

“Probably two more weeks to go,” Lucas grumbles, hooking his leg on his crutch. In the past couple of weeks (for about as long as Eliott has known him, actually), his neighbor has started developing a nervous tic — rubbing the pink spot on his arm, where he’s managed to splatter himself with whatever boiling liquid available at his workplace. This time again, Lucas’ free hand reaches for the bruised skin.

“It will come sooner than you think,” Eliott says, trying to sound casual and not in a ‘I know this is bullshit but that’s all I got’ manner. “And then you’ll whine about not wanting some guy to come anywhere near your leg with a jigsaw.”

Lucas gives him an unimpressed look. “Joke’s on you, I just asked the doc if she could chop off my leg,” he deadpans. “Didn’t take it very well though.”

Eliott scoffs, but it quickly dies down when Lucas doesn’t flinch one bit. This moron is _serious_ , Eliott realizes, eyes widening. “Jesus, and they let you work with _customers_?”

He’s always assumed that Lucas is a little bit more… Well, a little bit _less_ … Yeah. A little bit less of an asshole, with people he doesn’t know, but he’s seriously starting to lose faith in that too. Lucas gives a flippant shrug. “I just don’t want to go through two more weeks of pre-summer heat and mid-night cramps,” he groans, lips twisting into a pout before adding into a grumble: “I already have panic attacks to keep me up I don’t need more shit like that.”

It doesn’t seem like Eliott was meant to hear it but he chooses to ignore that particular fact. “Is that why you’re extra cranky?”

Lucas glares. “Well _maybe_ , yes.”

Eliott gives a wince in response, hoping to come across as sympathetic without using the words ‘it sucks’ — because it truly does. He’s had his fair share of panic attacks, mostly when he was in his pre-teen years for some reason, and while he’s not entirely sure how Lucas manages to deal with it on his own, he can only guess it’s not exactly smooth.

“C’mon let’s go outside,” he says, leaning forward to give an encouraging pat behind Lucas’ knee, before standing up from his squeaky seat. “I need some air and so do you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who can’t enter a hospital without throwing up,” Lucas snickers, slowly easing his injured leg down.

Eliott gives him a look. “Believe it or not but it’s starting to make you dizzy when you’ve been waiting here for forty-five minutes.”

Lucas adjusts his hand on the handle of his crutch with an ever-exasperated kick of the elbow in the air, before starting to walk away without even a glance back. “You came because you wanted to.”

Eliott lets out a snort, but it turns out into a quiet laugh when he starts following him through the lobby. The motion detectors of the main entrance go off, automatic doors sliding open for them, and a warm breeze coming from the outside brushes across their faces as they walk out. Eliott takes a quiet but deep inhale, blinking hard for his eyes to adjust at the sun shining insolently bright.

“We should book an Uber,” Lucas says as they reach the sidewalk, slowing down a little.

“But it’s still early,” Eliott points out. “I thought you needed some fresh air and a change of scenery.”

“My arms are killing me,” Lucas mumbles stubbornly. “And I still need to climb four flights of stairs, in case you forgot.”

 _How could I_ , Eliott thinks.

“Just around the block,” he insists, and fucking hell this sounds like trying to convince a stubborn kid to play outside. “Five minutes. And then I book the Uber.”

“You’re not the one walking with crutches.”

“No but I’m the one dealing with you,” he retorts. He takes advantage of the split-second it takes for Lucas’ biting response to form on his tongue and quickly strides away, shoving his hands into his jeans’ pockets.

“I could book one by myself,” Lucas protests, voice echoing from afar.

“Then have a nice trip back,” Eliott replies without looking back, still walking.

It takes a few more seconds for the sound of Lucas’ crutches hitting the pavement to reach Eliott’s ears, in-between cars passing by, and he bites back a small smile as he slows down his pace. He eventually reaches the end of the road, stopping at a pedestrian crossing while Lucas catches up with him.

“You’re really making me hate you right now,” he groans, eyes shooting bullets.

“Stop being so difficult." Eliott gives a click of his tongue before turning left.

They walk in silence for a moment, Lucas trailing behind on the narrow sidewalk, but Eliott tries his best not to put too much distance between them — or to glance too often above his shoulder. He has this feeling that it’s not going to end well if he does, and he rather wants to avoid Lucas pushing him off the sidewalk in front of the next car. He slows down a little bit more as they round the corner of a pharmacy and that a larger street opens in front of them.

“I know this neighborhood,” Eliott says with a small frown, more to himself than to anyone else.

The clatter of Lucas’ crutches hitting the pavement grows instantly closer. “It’s Paris,” Lucas says, panting a little as he stops behind him, “ _all_ the neighborhoods look the same.”

Eliott hums noncommittally, still glancing around thoughtfully. There’s a narrower alley on the side, the first to his right across the street, and that’s when it clicks — when his eyes stumble on the small patch of blue of a familiar storefront peeking out at the far corner. _I knew it_ , he almost says aloud. It’s the store where he used to buy his cigarettes when he was in high school. Every Wednesday afternoon and Saturday morning he was crossing Paris to get there for the drawing lessons he took for about a year, a little farther down the street.

“Are you satisfied now?” Lucas says, sounding more annoyed than angry.

Eliott glances at Lucas, all flushed cheeks and hair sticking to his temples like he’s just ran a marathon in the middle of July. The weather is particularly suffocating at the moment, the sun reverberating on the asphalt, and Eliott is suddenly hyper-aware of the sun hitting the back of his neck and reverberating on his black tee-shirt. He gives Lucas a small nudge from the shoulder. “C’mon, there’s a nice place across the street, we can grab a drink and then we go home,” he says with a grin.

Lucas starts protesting all over again but Eliott immediately takes off, crossing the street as soon as it’s clear. “I’m going to kill you,” Lucas shouts angrily, limping his way through the pedestrian crossing.

It gets them a weird look from one or two people nearby, and Eliott gives his most innocent smile to a woman walking her dog once he reaches the opposite sidewalk. Contrary to Lucas’ assessment, he’s not enough of an asshole to blatantly throw himself into a race, when he has such a big advantage over him — come on, he _isn’t_ , really. But he firmly believes that striding a little quicker is the tiny push Lucas seems to be needing at the moment to suck it up and move his ass. He needs the fresh air and to look at literally anything that isn’t his perpetually unlocked front door and four walls delimiting 17m² of semi-freedom.

The clatter of Lucas’ crutches follows a few meters behind, and both simultaneously slow down as they near a bar. In spite of the traffic and cars passing by, a couple of tables are lined up outside, packed with customers enjoying an early weekend drink in the cheerful yet lazy spring atmosphere. It all feels familiar; he remembers hours spent there, stealing glances at strangers and smoking cigarettes his mom would lose her shit over.

“ _Eliott_ ,” Lucas calls out, sounding out of breath, and he spins around to face him, decided to stand his ground. “Can we go literally anyw-”

“We’re getting those drinks,” he says, and without really knowing why, perhaps because for once it doesn’t look like Lucas has the advantage, or perhaps because it all feels different for some reason, he slides an arm behind his shoulders to pull him towards the entrance — only to nearly headbutt with the waitress waltzing outside.

“Lucas!” she exclaims, voice chirping happily in obvious surprise.

Eliott’s eyebrows shoot up in confusion as he stares at the blue-haired girl, a couple of drinks precariously perched on her tray, while Lucas mutters a small “great” that reeks of sarcasm. He gives Eliott a shoulder nudge to kick him away from his personal space.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” the waitress adds, apparently not deterred in the slightest by Lucas’ evident lack of enthusiasm — he really is an asshole, Eliott thinks to himself with an eyeroll. “What happened to you?”

“Unfortunate series of events,” Lucas replies laconically.

She nods sympathetically, a small crease of concern knitting her brows together for a second. “That sucks.” Eliott nearly tells her he’s been there too and it’s really not worth it, but soon the waitress starts smiling again and even gives Eliott a nice pat on the arm like they’ve always known each other. “I gotta give these, but grab a table, someone will be there in a minute!”

She strolls past them to get to her tables, and as soon as she’s as far away from hearing distance as possible, Eliott turns to Lucas. “What the hell is going on?”

“I used to work here,” Lucas groans, heaving a deep sigh as he evidently braces himself to make his way inside.

A disbelieved “ _Really_?” escapes Eliott’s lips, as he follows him inside.

“ _Yes,_ really,” Lucas huffs, maneuvering between tables and chairs and customers. “Fucking hell, there’s like a billion bars in Paris, and you had to pick this one!”

There’s something weird in coming back here after all this time — especially coming back with Lucas, and not just Lucas-his-neighbor, but Lucas-who-worked-here. The foosball table and the punching ball are still there in a corner, the floor is still made of the same vintage, mismatched tiles, the small tables are still resolutely the same, yet the employees are all different and Lucas obviously has memories of his own attached to that place; it’s like watching a retrospective of two different timelines of events playing out in front of him.

“How was I supposed to know?”, he counters, just as Lucas finally picks a free table next to a wall. “You never tell me anything.” For someone who was so keen on complaining about _moving_ five minutes before, Lucas seems to be extra-picky about the choice of their table, Eliott notices.

“I’m sorry, when exactly did we get married?”, he sasses, hopping a little on the spot before sliding into his seat.

Before Eliott can even find something to reply to that, which would hopefully convey both his annoyance and his irritation without totally excluding resorting to insults, a guy pops up out of nowhere and swiftly slides next to Lucas with the rapidity of a cartoon character. “Did I hear someone talk about marriage?”, he whispers to Lucas’ ear.

It makes him startle and recoil away with a hiss. “Jesus, Mika!”

 _I just entered a parallel universe_ , is the first thing that comes to Eliott’s mind. The guy — Mika — doesn’t seem deterred _either_ , which is starting to make Eliott question everything. Either he really has fucked up principles about politeness and cordiality, or Lucas really has no clue whatsoever on how normal humans behave — and hasn’t had any in a while.

“I’ve got plenty of questions right now,” Mika is saying, without much caring about Lucas’ glare or his mildly threatening ‘ _Mika_ …’. He starts obnoxiously counting on his fingers instead. “Who let you grow your hair like that, what happened to your leg, how on Earth did you score such a pretty face and last but not least, _who the hell let you grow your hair like that_?”

Lucas’ eyes widen a little bit as his head snaps to the side. “Don’t you have a job to do?”, he barks.

“I do but this is so much more interesting,” his former colleague grins with an affected sigh, crouching down to rest his elbow on the table and his chin in the palm of his hand. Lucas huffs and looks pointedly away until Mika turns to Eliott, holding out a hand. “Mika. I’m his gay guru.”

His neighbor lets out a noise of adamant protest. _Well now that’s interesting_ , Eliott almost says aloud, but he holds it back inside and instead starts laughing, before accepting the hand offered for a short handshake. _I will end you_ , Lucas’ eyes flare, but since they keep jumping from Mika to him, Eliott’s not sure who’s the designated target.

He tosses the thought away.

“Eliott,” he replies, flashing a smile to Mika who pretends to swoon a little.

“What can I get you, handsome?” he asks, apparently finding back a little bit of his professional composure.

“I’ll take a diet coke,” Lucas meddles in snappily, shuffling on his seat a little bit.

Mika rolls his eyes with a huff and keeps his eyes on Eliott instead.

“I’ll take a beer,” he smiles with a polite nod. If someone has to be polite and respectful, he guesses it’s his job.

Lucas retrieves his crutches from the floor and lifts himself up with a frowny face, making his way between two tables to reach a dark-green door in a corner under Eliott and Mika’s look.

“The bathroom is the other way, kitten,” his ex-colleague calls out.

“Like I don’t know yours is so much better,” Lucas yells back, kicking the door open with the end of his crutch.

It makes Mika sigh heavily, shaking his head affectedly. “So tell me,” he says, turning back to Eliott with interest, “how do you resist the _urge_ to smother him with his pillow every night? Because I’ve been on the edge of it a bunch of times myself.”

“It’s very tempting, I know,” Eliott laughs. “We’re not together, though.”

“Really?” Mika blinks a few times, eyebrows shooting up, then he looks away to the dark-green door Lucas has disappeared through. “And here I thought he had finally acquired some taste,” he mutters with a commiserate shake of his head.

Someone calls out his name from the other side of the room, and they look up at the same time to find the blue-haired waitress gesturing at him, from her spot next to the bar. “I gotta go, apparently it’s _my_ job to give people something to drink,” Mika scoffs before pulling himself away from the table, and Eliott isn’t entirely sure it’s ironical.

Mika strides through the room and steps behind the countertop, immediately starting to chat with a regular drinking his coffee. Eliott’s eyes trail away as he absently drums his fingers on the table. After a minute or two, Lucas walks out of the bathroom, dropping himself ungracefully on his seat.

“So how long did you work here?”, Eliott asks conversationally, while Lucas is carefully leaning his crutches against the wall. He stops in his task to give him a ‘ _really_?’ look. “Come on,” Eliott insists, “if you don’t want to end up in situations like these you _have_ to tell me some stuff at least.”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Two years. I started literally the week after the bac, before we even got the results,” he said, taking off his snapback to hook it on his crutch before gesturing vaguely with his hand as the blue-haired waitress is bringing a drink to a table nearby. “Alexia started off pretty much around that time too, maybe a month later or something.”

“And then you sold your soul to capitalism and international corporation, for a red apron and a snapback,” Eliott teases.

Lucas shoots him a glare. “Capitalism pays the bills. And it’s not a fishnet tank-top and sparkly thong, last I checked.”

“Someone mentioned sparkly thongs?”, Mika echoes unabashedly, popping up on the side of their table to set down their drinks. Lucas lets out a groan that Mika obviously ignores. “Do you know that when I took him in, he was so deep in the closet he couldn’t even get the word _thong_ out? Look how far he’s come,” he says dramatically, holding his empty tray against his chest like the thought is particularly moving, then he gives Lucas a nudge in the shoulder. “Look how far you’ve come, kitten!”

“If you don’t want me to bust your kneecaps, go check on your customers right the fuck now,” Lucas grits, shoving him away.

Mika lets out a sound of offended protest. “Have fun,” he muses to Eliott with an eyeroll.

It’s all too fun for Eliott to _possibly_ hold back his laughter, no matter if it earns him an annoyed glance from Lucas. “Are you done laughing?”

The first thing that comes to his mind is that, no, he’s not done, and chances are that he’s not going to be for a good while, but he makes a supreme effort to try to swallow down the full-body laughter that’s bubbling inside of him. “And are you done being such a grump?”, he huffs, barely biting back a smile as he brings his Heineken glass closer to him. “Life sucks but we’ve got a nice afternoon to ourselves and the place is super cool. Plus, you seem to know Mika a lot more than me, and I can already tell your moody boy number isn’t going to work with on him, so how about you drop the act, uh?”

For a moment nothing happens. Lucas’ expression has gone unreadable as he picks up his glass to take a sip of his drink, and Eliott genuinely thinks he’s stuck the wrong nerve. Technically, it wouldn’t be the first time Lucas gets upset for no apparent reason but it would be the first time he wouldn’t be able to slam a door in his face in retaliation.

“Why did you stop coming?”, Lucas eventually asks, always a little blunt, while Eliott was already bracing himself for an afternoon worth of silent treatment. “Here, I mean.”

Eliott ponders his answer. “It sort of… happened,” he says. He knows it’s in no way a satisfying answer, so after a few seconds he adds: “I used to take drawing lessons down the street when I was in high school, but my parents cut them off after I snuck out one time too many.” He gives a small shrug. “The bar was kind of a collateral damage.”

Lucas cocks an eyebrow. “Are you telling me Eliott Demaury wasn’t the perfect mama’s boy?”

Eliott huffs. “No one’s ever the perfect mama’s boy.”

_The understatement of the year._

He takes a sip of his beer. “It’s fun to think we might have met here.”

If Lucas feels like that he’s trying to deflect, he doesn’t say anything — which in itself can mean anything and everything. “We probably did, in another universe,” he says slowly, “and I’m pretty sure I hated you right off the bat.” Eliott’s eyes widen and Lucas snorts. “Oh come on, it’s nothing personal. Customers in general are annoying, and I’m _absolutely_ convinced you were the dumb hipster kind. Smoking rollies and drawing stuff and entirely persuaded the whole world owes you shit.”

Isn’t that what being a teenager is supposed to feel like, Eliott wonders. Thinking the world owes you something, before you realize, sometimes the hard way, that you have to contribute too? He’s not sure whether or not he should be upset at how harshly Lucas is prone to judge him; maybe he wouldn’t have had such a hard time determining his feelings on the matter if it had come from someone else.

But one thing he knows instantly is that Lucas is probably not the one person he should be lecturing on opportunities and learning life the hard way.

“Does that mean you like me?” he asks after a moment. “If in this other universe you hate me, it means in this one you don’t.”

“I tolerate you.”

“ _I_ tolerate _you_ ,” Eliott protests, laughing as he shakes his head. “You’re such an ass.”

His statement is welcomed by a flippant shrug. “What can I say, I believe in the virtue of tough love.”

“So you really do like me a lot. And Mika.”

“With Mika it’s different,” Lucas counters, and Eliott cocks an unimpressed eyebrow. “I’ve lived with him, he never knew what personal space is and he was-”

“If you say loud and obnoxious, I might die laughing.”

Lucas squints his eyes. “I was gonna say, _nosy_.”

There’s a little moment of déjà-vu, as another conversation replays in Eliott’s head. It’s foggy and blurry, but he definitely remembers asking Lucas about his apparent strong taste for sexual intercourse in the shower, the other night. _It was the only room with a lock in my old apartment, and I had a nosy roommate_ , Lucas had slurred with an easy shrug — obviously with less words than that.

Interesting.

So that means Mika’s the former roommate. Boy the number of stories he must have to recount, Eliott thinks, diving into his beer.

“Bold for someone who likes to snoop around behind people’s back,” he snorts easily.

“Let me tell you, working with dumb middle-schoolers is starting to rub off on you.”

**VENDREDI, 17:58**

**VENDREDI, 18:21**

“I have blisters,” Lucas complains as Eliott climbs in their Uber car and slams the door shut, and since apparently a ‘hum’ isn’t enough of a valid answer to him, he stubbornly shoves his hands in Eliott’s face. “ _Blisters_ , Eliott!”

Eliott rolls his eyes and pushes his hands away from his face to attach his seatbelt. “Yes, alright, but you don’t look like a corpse anymore,” he says with a shrug. “Trust me it’s a weirdly attractive feature on most people,” he adds, glancing out the window while their driver inserted the car in the traffic.

Lucas still has those big bags under his eyes and his stupidly overgrown, untamed hair doing its own thing, but he also looks marginally less grumpy and his cheeks have a soft flush to them, after they’ve waited a few minutes on the sidewalk for their car to arrive. 

“Have you met this one already?”, Lucas retorts, middle finger raised until Eliott looks back.

“Quite a few times,” he sneers, unimpressed, before giving a small nudge from the elbow above the empty middle-seat. “C’mon, admit you had fun.”

Lucas turns a dry smile on him after adjusting his crutches between his legs. “Enlighten me, what is your definition of fun?”

“Call me an old, boring soul but-”

“Which you absolutely are.”

“- _but_ like, taking a stroll outside on a sunny day is fun. Grabbing a drink with me is fun,” he enumerates, openly choosing to ignore Lucas obnoxiously scoffing, “meeting up with old friends is fun.”

“Oh yeah,” Lucas snickers, looking at the traffic outside, “that was _so_ much fun.”

Eliott frowns, staring at him for a moment. “Now I’m confused,” he says. Lucas glances back at him. “Really. Because Mika seems like he cares about you and so does Alexia. And you do seem to care enough in return at least not to insult her. So what’s the problem?”

For a moment Lucas seems to be too busy glaring holes in the black leather of the driver’s seat to be bothered to give him an answer, and the car goes mostly silent. The only sounds he can make out are the quiet humming of the radio and the buzzing of the traffic outside as the car slows down at a red light.

“Going back there with you just makes it plain I can’t function on my own,” Lucas mutters eventually, like each word is particularly difficult to get out. “I wasn’t in the best place when I met Mika. I was 16, I was closeted, and I was fucking angry. It got better, I got better, and then Kevin smashed everything. Then it was back to square one, except this time it wasn’t Mika who pieced me back together, it was the boys. And now…”

“Now it’s me," Eliott completes, twisting his mouth a little. He never thought of it that way — mostly because he didn’t have the subtext and little to no clue about Lucas’ personal situation —, but now it makes him feel bad about putting whatever hero complex he has going on before Lucas’ actual wishes. Maybe he’s been wrong since the beginning. Maybe Lucas’ constant irritation isn’t just them playing some weird, twisted ‘I love that you hate me’ game, but simply him trying to get rid of him.

“Is that why you’re always mad at me?” 

Lucas snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’m not _always_ mad at you. Only from time to time.”

It doesn’t quite make him feel better, but there’s this voice deep down that’s starting to tell him that perhaps it’s not him he should be trying to make feel better. “I don’t think it’s fair to say you can’t function alone,” Eliott says tentatively, and he doesn’t really think about it twice before giving Lucas a smile. “I mean, you’re definitely the brattiest person I know, you often react like a six-year-old, and it’s hard to get the last word even on some obvious stuff, like, _locking_ _your_ _fucking_ _door_ , but you’ve been working your ass off since 18, and now you’re a manager at, what, 21?”

“22,” Lucas mumbles, but his features look a little softer and he’s stopped contracting his jawline so much, which Eliott takes as a good sign.

“Look, everyone needs a little help. Believe me. Most people just happen to get it from parents and family so everyone assumes it’s part of the original package.”

“My dad slept with my godmother at my christening,” Lucas says bluntly after a while, and Eliott’s eyes must have widen a good deal because Lucas has a dry laugh. “Yup. That’s the kind of family I have. Not really on the helpful side, but if you’re looking for the biggest asshole in town, I’ve got a fine specimen in the heavy-weight category.”

“That sucks,” Eliott winces, not sure what else to say.

“Nah,” Lucas snorts, shaking his head. “You know what truly sucks? That he did it again and again and again, and that people still thought it was okay because he ‘cared’ enough to stick around with us,” he presses on, mimicking the quotation marks as he spoke, before slumping back into his seat, eyes on the driver’s headrest. “Because apparently caring means throwing money at the problem and expect it to go away. And guess who was stuck in the middle trying to make things work for him? Me.”

Stupidly, selfishly, perhaps dramatically, the first thought that crosses Eliott’s mind is _I don’t like it_. He doesn’t like the thought of Lucas being overwhelmed by adults’ problems; he doesn’t like the thought of him being so aware of things he should have probably never known. Worst, he hates the fact that Lucas, stupid, jackass, _angry_ Lucas, with all his attitude problems and his unresolved snappiness, his dumb decisions and even dumber relationship problems, doesn’t have just a reason, but a hundred of those to be mad. 

“Is that why you started living with Mika?” Eliott asks after a moment, while their car enters a tunnel that makes them go completely blind.

“Kind of,” Lucas’ voice says, quieter. “My dad left Paris for work, and I stayed behind to finish high school. As usual as long as it could be solved with a check my dad was in, but we kept headbutting every time we were in the same room, so I started working at the café to make some money on the side, to have like, a chance to be more financially independent. I just told myself prepa could wait for a year,” he says, punctuating it with a casual shrug as they reach the end of the tunnel and light explodes all around. “He didn’t like it so we had, like, this huge fight, and I told him he could fuck off with his money, and so he did. Pretty sure he was expecting me to come back groveling.”

“Which is clue number 1 he doesn’t know you,” Eliott muses with a lopsided smile.

Lucas throws a glance his way and lets out a small laugh. “That’s what my friends said.”

They fall silent for a few moments, Eliott stealing a few looks at Lucas while he’s busy rubbing the sore spots on his hands with a pout on his face. His attention eventually drifts away, focusing on the road outside, his mind wandering absently on the semi-familiar streets for a while.

“You know,” he hears himself saying, not really looking at Lucas in particular at first, “my sister had a bit of rift too with our parents.” He tears his eyes away from his window eventually. “Not that bad I guess but… Yeah. I wasn’t exactly… the model child, during my teen years. And that’s an understatement. I’d act out and be difficult and… complicated.”

He feels something churn a little, deep down. Not quite regrets, not quite shame, not quite bitterness — but perhaps a little bit of all of those, sprinkled with a touch of melancholy. Admittedly he knows he put his parents through hell. He scared the shit out of them on numerous occasions, he’s been brutal and reckless and downright uncontrollable at times; it would have been very hard not to notice. If he had to sum up his teen years in one word only, it would probably be rollercoasters. Up and down and up and down again, too fast to process, to understand. Mind racing and shit happening, and never a quiet moment to sit down and be able to take it in.

He clears his throat a little, drumming his fingers on his knee. “Delphine, my sister. She’s four years younger, so they thought she was going to pull some shit like I did and they went extra-hard on her.”

“Let me guess, it worked tremendously,” Lucas snickers humorlessly.

“You bet. It was becoming unbearable for everyone,” Eliott sighs. “I felt like she was a brat, always fucking complaining, and she resented me for all the added pressure. And in the middle of this my parents who were literally going nuts.” He huffs a little. “It got better when I moved out, but Delphine had to go study abroad to start breathing again. Then I got more … stable.” He hates that fucking word, so much it makes a weird taste roll on his tongue, but he just can’t find something more suitable. It makes him hate it even more. “We kind of patched things up now, and we’re definitely closer than ever before, but I know I didn’t make things easy for her.”

Lucas hums noncommittally.

“You do know that knowing you’re a screw-up too doesn’t make me feel better, right?”, he deadpans after a while.

“I never counted on you having even a single positive thought,” he replies easily, “so we’re good.”

Lucas huffs a laugh.

They stay quiet through the last kilometers; the streets grow increasingly more familiar, until Eliott can spot the tall, weirdly thin silhouette of their building. Their car parks along the sidewalk and Eliott patiently waits for Lucas to scramble his way outside without making any sarcastic comment — seeing as he’s struggling already, it would be downright cruel. He retrieves his keys from his pocket to open the lobby, pretending to be busy enough that Lucas wouldn’t jump at his throat for the most inadvertent glance back, then holds the door open for him.

They cross the hall together, but three steps in and Eliott finds himself glancing down as Lucas seems to be pondering the situation, carefully putting the crutches on the first step to test the waters. Eliott is _this close_ to telling him it’s steady enough for it to support his weight, but he bites it down at the last second. Lucas looks up grumpily. He’s put his snapback backwards for some reason, but now Eliott has a full view of his angry blue eyes, and it’s not making it any easier. He almost expects him to say something, but surprisingly enough Lucas keeps his mouth shut, lips a tight line and jaws set, as he makes his way up a couple of steps.

Eliott takes a step up every now and then, and he finds himself counting them mentally as Lucas struggles to reach the first floor. “I think I’ll need a minute,” he pants, breath short as he adjusts his snapback, then his crutches. “Just go upstairs I’ll be fine.”

“No, it’s okay,” Eliott says, fidgeting a little, not quite knowing what to do with his hands. He walks backwards, Lucas limping his way over to the next level. “If you really want me to piss off then go ahead, say so, but I’m not just going to… I don’t know, just leave you here.”

Lucas lets out a loud groan and glares, as Eliott climbs up the first step. “Does your stupid hero complex have _any_ limit?”

“No, just like your bad temper,” he retorts, before turning back, leaning against the banister. “If you’d just let me help you, we could be done with it and you could die peacefully in your bed in less than ten minutes.”

“Oh yeah?” Lucas huffs breathily, sarcastic. “And what are you going to do? Chop off your leg to replace mine?”

“Something like that, yeah, but I only have my keys so it might sting a little,” he mutters, plopping down three steps to get to Lucas’ level. “Seriously though, just let me help already.”

“Fine, what do you _suggest_ , then?” Lucas sighs in exasperation.

Eliott analyzes the situation for a second. “Give me your crutches.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am! Give me your crutches,” he insists, holding his hand out. Lucas gives him a suspicious look as he gives up on one crutch, trying to keep his balance on one foot, then the second one. Eliott grabs both with one hand, then pats his own shoulder. “Okay, put your arm around my neck.”

Lucas obeys, reluctantly, and Eliott slides an arm around his waist.

“That should work, right?”, he asks thoughtfully.

Lucas scoffs, grabbing the banister with his free hand to keep some balance. “How am I supposed to kno-”

“Aaaand we’re going,” Eliott cuts him off as he takes the first step forward.

Lucas lets out a yelp of protest, but ultimately tries to follow his cadence with a deeply concentrated frown knitting his brow together. Eliott focuses on the steps, mentally counting them _._

_Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…_

“You okay?”, he asks, halfway through the second floor.

The only answer he gets at first is a grunt, Lucas’ arm tight around his neck. All in all, it’s bearable. Mostly. Lucas’ hand is holding onto the banister for dear life, which means that in the end most of his weight is lifted by the effort he puts in this arm.

“Slow down a little, maybe,” Lucas mutters as they reach the third floor.

“We’re almost there,” Eliott says, encouraging.

Lucas glares at him. “Were you a goddamn _pompom boy_ in another life?”

“Maybe. Who the fuck knows,” he shrugs. “We’re good?”

Lucas’ arm immediately tightens around his neck, literally squeezing as he pulls Eliott down so that they’re face to face. “Ask that one more time and _I’m_ throwing myself off the stairs.”

Eliott gives a shoulder nudge in retaliation. “I’m helping you!”

“ _Of course_ you are, just… shut up,” he mumbles, dragging Eliott forward as he starts walking to the next staircase. “I’ll sleep for a fucking week I swear.”

“Do you want me to leave you there? Should be comfy enough.”

“That’s all your fault,” Lucas retorts, but it sounds whinier this time. “Helping me is the very least you c-”

He doesn’t have the chance to finish his sentence, because for some reason his foot trips over the step he was aiming for, nearly sending them both tumbling down face first. Eliott’s quick enough to slam a foot forward to keep their balance, leaving Lucas in a weird standing-falling in-between before he can steady himself with the banister.

“You okay?”, he asks, tightening his grip around him to pull him back up.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Thank God they’re only a couple more steps away from their floor. He lost count but probably something like 7 — they can do it. If there’d been so much as one more floor to climb, he’s not sure Lucas would have been able to handle it. They keep silent, focused on their footsteps as they slowly, painstakingly reach the last step.

“And there we go,” Eliott says breathily, eyes trailing away from Lucas, “home sweet ho-”

The last syllable trails off as his eyes fall onto a guy, waiting in the hallway. His back is resting against the wall separating their front doors, and it takes a split-second for Eliott to recognize one of Lucas’ friends — not so much because they’ve interacted before, but mostly from his Instagram pictures.

He doesn’t look happy. Judging by the look on Lucas' face, it's mutual.

“Hi,” the friend says, a little coolly, as he unfolds his arms. What’s his name again? It starts with an Y. _Yann_. Yeah. Yann.

Lucas mumbles something that sounds vaguely like a ‘hello’, but if anything his face is stern and Eliott can feel the tension arise. He clears his throat a little, pulling himself away from Lucas and handing him back his crutches, one after the other.

It drives Lucas’ attention away as he gets a hold of them.

“You’ll be okay from there?”, he asks.

This whole situation is spectacularly triggering his fight or flight instincts and it’s not made any better by Lucas, who not only refuses to make eye-contact with him but also to step up and introduce him formally to his friend, which only makes the situation more awkward as the seconds pass.

All he gets is a stiffy nod, and Eliott hesitantly starts walking away, already fishing for his keys in his jeans pocket. Yann greets him with an awkward wave he returns, as he steps past him to reach his own front door.

“How was Caen?”, Yann asks immediately, and Eliott immediately finds himself turning the key faster in the keyhole just to get the hell out of here.

“It was alright,” Lucas says, amidst the clattering sound of his crutches.

Unfortunately for his second-hand embarrassment, Eliott doesn’t have the time to get inside before Lucas’ friend hisses an upset: “Cut the bullshit, Lu, I know you didn’t go.”

 _Jesus_. It’s not going to go down well, he winces to himself, slamming the door a little harsh behind himself and locking the door. Outside, Lucas and Yann are doing the same, moving their conversation inside Lucas’ flat, and although they’re talking loud, they aren’t exactly yelling either, so the most Eliott can make out is vague sounds that don’t really mean anything.

Not that he wants to know.

Nope. Lucas dug this hole for himself, anyway, it’s not like Eliott hasn’t already told him countless times that _he should_ come clean about it before it comes biting him in the ass — and here they are. He motions to his kitchen, grabbing a glass and pouring himself some water, just to have something to do that is not directly listening. He absently reaches for his phone in his back pocket, only to be met by Lucille’s caller ID taking over the entire screen.

He debates for a second before picking up, because he’s a terrible friend like that, but ultimately his own hypocrisy pushes him to. He can’t simultaneously preach for Lucas to make up with his friends and keep avoiding his own.

And Lucille is his friend.

So.

“Hey, what’s up?”, he asks distractedly, sipping on his water.

“Do you remember you told Idriss and Imane you’d come over to help set things up or was it just a dream?”, Lucille enquires, but it hardly sounds like a question, so much that Eliott would probably wonder why she put an interrogation point at the end if his brain wasn’t already busy short-circuiting.

 _Holy fucking shit_.

The Bakhellals’ anniversary. It’s tonight. Fucking shit. The worst part is that he didn’t just promise Idriss he’d help, he also let himself be talked into being Lucille’s plus one. Fucking, _fucking shit_.

“I didn’t _forget_ , okay?”, he retorts stubbornly, letting the lie roll off his tongue like an old friend from the past. “Actually, I’m on my way.” And with that he hangs up, before Lucille can fall back into _her_ old habits and start telling him what to wear and what to do.

This is literally not the way he envisioned his fucking night, he thinks begrudgingly, already getting rid of his shirt as he motions to the bathroom.

**SAMEDI 08:54**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always try to make some research not to wave the creative license flag but you'll have to bear with me on this one. My most sincere apologies to any fan of FIFA out there 😂🙏🏻

**SAMEDI, 10:46**

“Room service,” Eliott chants after knocking lightly a couple of times at the door.

“It’s _always_ open, dumbass,” Lucas yells back from inside the apartment, putting the emphasis on the everyday dumbassery that will probably get him killed someday.

Eliott refrains himself from rolling his eyes, and simply lets out a small groan to himself before strolling in. It’s hard to believe how in less than six weeks it’s all become very natural for him to do that. Growing up, you never realize how long it takes to become friends with someone — it just sort of happens. Quick glances here, a couple of laughs there, a few jokes and some notes hurriedly slipped to the guy sitting next to you, and ta-daa, you guys are sort of friends; no well-defined number of hours, or days, or weeks.

But with Lucas, it’s hard to pinpoint.

To be fair, it’s not like his _friend_ is putting any kind of effort into making it seem like they’re past the point where they wanted to push each other off a cliff.

“What happened to the ‘don’t insult the hand that feeds you’ rule?” he enquires, balancing the paper bag hanging off his wrist.

Apparently he’s enough of an idiot to stop by the bakery on his way home to buy croissants for someone who’s spending the vast majority of his time insulting him — Lucas doesn’t even look up, too caught up in whatever video game he’s playing. His hands are tight around the controller, his face is crumpling into an intense frown, and his bed is a mess of dark sheets pooled at the end of the mattress.

“What food?” Lucas mutters distractedly, still staring at his flat screen.

Eliott takes a couple of steps forward, before unceremoniously dropping the croissants in his lap; the reaction is immediate. Lucas jolts on the spot, eyes snapping onto the paper bag with a slightly confused expression before he picks it up.

“Oh,” he says at first, putting the controller down, then he lets out a snort as he delves into it and exhumes a croissant: “The lengths you’re willing to go just to make me like you, unbelievable.”

Eliott kicks his shoes off and gives Lucas a nudge to make some room for him. “I thought we’d already established you liked me.”

Lucas shrugs after shuffling closer to the wall, and bites into his croissant. “And we’ve established already that you’re a people-pleaser.”

It’s Eliott’s turn to shrug. “Maybe so.” He doesn’t really see what’s the problem in trying to make it work with people, or trying to accommodate them. And if anything, there’s an ocean between being considerate and mindful of people’s needs and being a good old boring doormat.

“How did it go? Last night,” he asks after a moment. Yann was still there when he left after the quickest shower ever and he was a bit too focused on trying to close his button-down without killing himself in the stairs to notice whether or not they were still yelling at each other.

Lucas gives him a quick glance from the corner of his eye, still munching on his croissant. “We talked,” he says, after taking the time to swallow his bite. “He made a few points. That’s pretty much it.”

“So you guys are… good?”

Lucas takes another bite. “Kind of. In a way.”

It’s not very like Lucas to be like this — evasive yet cordial. He’s obviously not willing to talk and Eliott makes a mental note to back off before he starts insulting him. All in all they’ve reached some kind of status quo yesterday, it would be too bad to let it go to waste now.

Even if-

Yeah. Okay. Even if the way they parted has left Eliott a bit of a weird feeling. Sure, on the moment, he didn’t really have to the time to sit down and start methodically unpacking his personal thoughts, courtesy to Lucille — but maybe that’s precisely what’s bothering him now, looking back. Yann, then Lucille: the biggest reality check he’s had in a while. Real life coming back crashing in.

And maybe- Well. Maybe he wonders if Lucas felt like that too when he saw his best friend.

“What about you?” Lucas says, making his attention drift back to him. “Hot date?” Eliott’s eyes snap on him in confusion. It must show, because Lucas sneers. “You bolted out like your flat was on fire literally like, ten minutes top after we got home.”

Oh. Right. If he can hear Lucas’ every move, Lucas can also hear his own. Not like he expected him to notice. Assuming he expects Lucas to care about his whereabouts at all the rest of the time, he was especially _not_ expecting it last night, with all the Yann situation going on.

“Nah,” he snorts. An Instagram notification pops up, making his phone light up, and he unlocks it distractedly. “It was my friends’ parents’ wedding anniversary and I was supposed to come over to help set it up, but I forgot like a moron.”

When he had arrived the tables were already set and Imane and Idriss had already bickered about the check-list a certain number of times, to the point that Sali, Sofiane and Lucille had welcomed him like the perfect opportunity to diffuse the tension.

_Talk about the devil,_ he thinks, restraining a snort. The notification is from Lucille — a story she reposted from Idriss’ account, that his best friend apparently took the night before without Eliott particularly noticing.

“It was quite the ambiance I see.”

Eliott looks up, only to find Lucas shamelessly peering at his phone. “It was actually pretty tame,” he shrugs, and he exits Instagram before locking his phone again, “but my friends insisted we go to a club afterwards and since I’ve kind of been ghosting them for a while I couldn’t really say no.”

Lucas wrinkles his nose in disgust. “That’s why you smell like the backroom of a club.”

“Nice try, but I borrowed a shirt.”

“I wasn’t talking about the shirt,” Lucas scoffs but Eliott huffs and picks a croissant in the bag, ripping it in two and putting one half back. “Just saying. You sure got a lot of action for someone who was _definitely not_ on a hot date.”

“She’s my ex. Lucille.” He munches onto his croissant half. “Well, technically she’s my ex. But now she’s mostly a friend.”

“I could never be friend with an ex,” Lucas says after a moment.

Not that hard to imagine, Eliott almost says. He’s never had a detailed version of Lucas’ break-up stories, but knowing the guy, he’s starting to gather that him being mad is… probably not pretty. He might be short but it’s not that hard to picture him as this scary, vertically-challenged villain that can make your life a living-hell.

“It’s different with Luce,” Eliott says. “We dated on and off for years and we share the same friends. It makes sense for her to be around.”

_I guess_ , he almost adds.

“FIFA uh?”, Eliott asks, clearing his throat as Lucas clasps his hands together to get rid of the crumbs.

He’s paused the game, leaving only a large panel on display that shows the exit icon and a vast number of settings options, but Eliott can see a stripe of grass peeking out below.

Lucas grabs his Xbox controller, putting the paper bag between them.

“And there it is,” he grumbles.

“What?”

“The judgy face.”

“That’s not true,” Eliott scoffs. Lucas gives him a look. “Okay,” he huffs, “perhaps I just don’t get the appeal. Like, if you _want_ to play football then why do it on screen, where’s the fun in that?” Which is probably not the right thing to say to someone who’s been immobilized for a few weeks now and can’t even walk down the stairs on the regular, he realizes a split-second too late. He knows he’s messed up even before Lucas turns a killer look on him. “I mean, it’s different for _you_ obviously, I just-” 

“Alright,” Lucas cuts him off. “You’ve just entered the trainee program, congrats.”

And just like that he exits his game, and starts scrolling through the available options. Click after click Eliott realizes he’s _fucking serious_ , long before he even hands him the controller. “I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?”, Lucas deadpans. “Are you afraid to learn something?”

Eliott gives him a look. “You’re making us both lose our time,” he points out dryly, snatching the controller from Lucas’ hands.

“Just enter your name already,” he retorts impatiently.

It’s a miracle he’s not already jumping on the controller before Eliott even finished entering his name — although he does so the very moment he moves onto the next step. For a good minute it’s just Lucas hitting a button here, scrolling down options there, too fast for Eliott to process or even try to care.

“Why the hell is Zidane even here?” asks, brow furrowing, when he sees the vaguely familiar face popping on the corner of the screen. “I thought it was FIFA 2020, not FIFA 2002.”

“Nice try smartass,” Lucas easily bites back, still looking at the screen. “It’s the Ultimate Team mode. Basically the best players all in one game. You just have to make do with some 3-D players before you can get a good trade with first League.”

“Uh-huh,” Eliott hums, uninterested to the last degree. He’s not even bothering to hide it because Lucas doesn’t even spare him a glance, so at least he’s allowed to yawn without getting hit square in the face. Maybe coming here wasn’t the smartest idea when he’s had four hours of sleep. “Couldn’t you just get addicted to Animal Crossing like everybody else?”

Eyes still glued to the screen, Lucas doesn’t skip a beat. “I’m not everybody else.”

_Well that’s for sure_ , Eliott snickers to himself.

It becomes a lot less funny when it’s time for him to pick the first players for his team. Assuming the prospect of spending his Saturday being bossed around by Lucas on his favorite video-game was ever the definition of _funny_. He’s chosen to play with a Spanish team, mostly because his sister sometimes makes a comment or two about them, and he naively thought it’d be better than nothing, but it turns out it doesn’t mean _shit_. It’s not helping that Lucas is staring at him intensely, like the tiniest mistake will be enough to lose every bit of respect painstakingly acquired in the past six weeks — assuming he’s acquired any.

“You need a loan player,” Lucas points out, slow and obnoxious like Eliott is the densest guy on the fucking planet.

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Lucas rubs his forehead impatiently. “It’s a player you’ll get for a few games.”

He flicks through the card-like profiles until he reaches some German dude. “Is Ter Stegen okay?”

“Yes, pick that one. Next.”

“Newer has better stats,” he observes distractedly, flicking back to the other side of the screen.

“You have Newer for _four games_ ,” Lucas exclaims, literally jumping on the spot, “ _all_ the other players are available for _three games_. Ter Stegen is loaned to you for _nine fucking games_. How hard can it be to choose?”

“You’re not explaining anything,” Eliott protests defensively, but still going back to Ter Stegen diligently nonetheless.

It earns him a sharp look. “Eliott, the game hasn’t started yet, you can’t _possibly_ tell me you’re already confused,” Lucas snaps impatiently.

It’s quite funny, in a way, because Eliott has always been pegged as the guy who can’t hold back. The guy who can’t hide his feelings, the guy who feels too deeply to be able to put up a (lasting) front — but it seems a lot like Lucas is giving him a run for his money. Not that it comes as a surprise. But if he wasn’t so transparent, then maybe riling him up, in this moment, wouldn’t look as appealing as it does.

So yeah, maybe he’ll never understand shit at about football. Probably. Big chances.

But now he’s got a very impatient Lucas sitting next to him who fidgets on the spot like he’s about to burst, and a controller in his hands, and at the moment, the prospect of making him burst sounds like a lot of fun. Coincidentally, the next step in the whole set-up thing seems to be a blessing for him to achieve that — picking his team’s jersey. Since his personal knowledge of football teams is every bit of a dead end, he’s forced to do what he does for a living: relying on shapes and pretty colors.

“I like the Real Madrid jersey,” Eliott says, taking a good minute to stare at the player on the side of the screen trying the colors on, like he hasn’t done the same thing already for three of the six available jerseys. “I’m just not _sure_ about the logo.”

He swears he can feel Lucas is getting closer and closer from to blowing up with every passing second. “I’m giving you twenty seconds exactly to make up your damn mind before I strangle you,” he warns, voice low and threatening as he crosses his arms on his chest.

“You said you’d teach me,” Eliott ripostes disdainfully, “well guess what, teaching requires _patience_.”

“I am teaching you how to move your ass. When they created this game and they put a ten-hour countdown, they didn’t expect people to eat up half of it just trying on goddamn _jerseys_!”

Eliott turns questioning eyes on him. “We have a countdown?”

“Just give me that already,” Lucas snaps, reaching for the controller.

Call it self-preservation, or simply muscle memory that can be traced all the way back to childhood afternoons spent fighting with his sister, but Eliott’s first instinct is to hold the controller out of reach, his arm shooting up in the air. Which, coming to think of it, might not have been his brightest idea, when the person trying to wrestle it away from you is already injured.

In a split-second he finds himself with a lapful of Lucas, staring cross-eyed into deep blue eyes.

_Uh oh_.

“The _controller_ ,” Lucas groans, pulling at his arm sharply where his hand has wrapped around his wrist.

“Fine,” Eliott says quietly, blinking a little. He lowers his arm slowly and lets Lucas snatch the controller from his hand, before dropping himself back down on his original spot like nothing happened. “You should be more careful with your leg,” he observes flatly.

“Then stop being an asshole,” Lucas retorts with a surprisingly casual shrug.

Without a second of hesitation he jumps right back into the game, and Eliott lets him decide for the secondary set of jerseys and the rest of the parameters he can’t be bothered to think about. He’s got a feeling that Lucas cares a lot more about all of this than he does, so he might as well leave him that. After a few more minutes, a few curses and a shit-ton of cinematics, Lucas hands him the controller back and Eliott pretends to be interested in what is happening on screen, he _really_ does, but it’s difficult. The players’ names don’t ring a fucking bell, he keeps mixing the buttons of the controller together, he doesn’t have nearly enough dexterity to make anyone kick the ball the right way, and no matter how hard he’s trying, he can’t focus enough to find it all stimulating.

Not to mention that Lucas’ commentaries are _not_ helping.

“Eliott, you’re playing _football_!”, he exclaims at one point.

“I _know_!”

“Then shoot in the damn ball!”

Yes.

Imagine that.

For hours and hours.

The only moments Eliott catches a break are when Lucas suggests they pause the game to get something to eat (pasta cooked in record-time around 13h, their usual pizza order around 20h), and when he offers to take over the controller to help a little. It’s not far from the truth to say that in only a couple of bad moves and wrong transfers, Eliott has tanked his Spanish team, in less than a day. The best Lucas can do at this point is to try and make some damage control every now and then.

“You’re not even paying attention,” Lucas huffs accusingly, as he slams the buttons of the controller to execute some defense move in front of their goalie.

“I’m too intrigued by your hair,” Eliott replies honestly, stifling a yawn, and he takes advantage of the fact that Lucas is way too entranced by the game to tug lightly at a spiky strand. “Seriously, two more weeks and you can get a man-bun at this point.” He’s managed to convince Lucas to fold back the pull-out couch to be more comfortable and now all he has to do is to extend his arm on the backrest to be able to annoy him.

“Leave my hair alone.”

“I’m serious,” Eliott grins, ruffling his hair until Lucas shoves his hand away.

“Well I’m serious _too_ , too bad,” he retorts snappily after he’s managed to win a game to save Eliott’s honor. “You’re not even paying attention.”

This time Eliott outwardly yawns, stretching his arms a little. “I told you it wasn’t my thing.”

The scowl on Lucas’ face fades away a little and he snorts. “I _know_ it’s not.”

“Then why did you force me to play at all?” Eliott mutters. “I told you it’d just be a massive waste of time.

He doesn’t even know how many hours of his life he’s lost today until he reaches for his phone to check. 22h. Almost. _Ah_. Maybe that explains why he’s starting to feel like he’s surrounded by cotton and that his eyes are starting to feel very heavy. Last night and the lack of sleep haven’t prepared him for a whole day in Lucas’ energy-consuming company.

Right now, Lucas looks too busy flicking through the players’ profiles to reply at first, but Eliott knows right off the bat he’s just pretending to, because he keeps doing it over and over again. “I was conducting an experiment,” Lucas says after a while. A little dimple appears on his cheek as he bites back a smile. “Was trying to see if you were enough of a people-pleaser to indulge into a 10-hour long FIFA marathon.”

Eliott opens his mouth and closes it a couple of times. “You’re such a jackass,” he protests, offended.

“Like _you_ haven’t tried to make _me_ snap,” Lucas says, frankly laughing this time. “No one takes this long to pick a jersey, c’mon.”

“Okay fine,” Eliott scoffs, but he ends up laughing too as he raises both hands in surrender. “Guilty. But for what it’s worth you were not as bad a teacher I thought you’d be, so.”

“And you were definitely as bad a player I thought you’d be.”

Eliott hums with a little huff. The flat goes silent for a moment, quiet and comfortable. Truth is, he might be a terrible player, he may not even like football, he may be doing that to see how fast Lucas is going to snap — but even still, he’s not entirely sure he’d say no to another ten-hour long marathon.

_Who the fuck are you kidding_ , a voice taunts.

He’d say yes. Without a blink.

“I should go,” Eliott hears himself saying, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hands. “You don’t wanna see me sleep deprived.”

Does he want to? Not really.

Maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t want to leave.

Maybe, just maybe, he wants to stay in, play video-games he doesn’t like. Eat half-cooked pasta and hear Lucas’ rambling about the Spanish League, wrestle for the controller when he feels like being a little shit in return, bring croissants for breakfast because he wants to see that stupid smile.

“Yeah, you should,” Lucas says, reclining into the backrest. His hands have gone a little loose around the controller.

“I will,” Eliott adds, then: “In a minute.”

He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to explain what did it, there and then — perhaps the fact that Lucas looks back. Something just kind of clicks, slow but irreversible. A second passes, lost into his ocean blue eyes and his stupid, messy hair, and still it happens. Eliott feels his body lean forward, jumping right in the unknown as he closes the distance between them and presses his lips to Lucas’.

The world seems to narrow down to this, Lucas’ mouth, their connected lips making something deep and burning explode in his chest at the sensation. Shooting sparkles all over his skin, making his heartbeat skyrocket through the roof — until a hand sneaks its way between them, smacking hard against Eliott’s chest.

Hard enough for the universe to come to a full-stop. His world turns into a freezing cold as Lucas breaks apart with a harsh push.

“Wow, hey, what do you think you’re doing?”, Lucas says, recoiling a little.

It’s like someone has just poured a bathtub worth of ice cubes on Eliott’s head. “I-,” his voice trails off, throat constricting. In horror, in shock, in shame, he doesn’t know. _I don’t know_ , he almost says, but it’s not quite the truth. “Lucas- I think- I think I like you,” he whispers huskily.

_A lot more than I thought I did._

Lucas stares at him, deep blue eyes turned to steel, then briefly looks away with a small shake of his head to himself. He seems about to say something, but he simply lets out a: “You should go.”

His voice curiously void of emotion, like he’s not stomping on Eliott’s self-respect.

_What did you do?_

For a moment Eliott is too paralyzed to move or to say anything. To even think.

Not a playful jab, not a snarky remark, not a way to deflect or play it cool, nothing to hide, nothing else but his stupid emotions, laid out on the table for Lucas to smash them methodically.

Like someone has activated the automatic pilot mode, Eliott stands up from the couch, feeling hazy and nauseous as he walks to the front door.

**MARDI, 15:51**

**VENDREDI, 19:41**

“Okay, I don’t know what’s going on,” Idriss drawls as he slides back into his seat, “but if I have to kick someone’s ass, you know you just have to give me a call, right?”

It’s not so much that it comes as a surprise that his friends would notice he’s in a shitty mood, considering he’s not really set into making it seem otherwise, but he just thought they’d roll with it. Idriss left the table a couple of minutes ago to hit the restroom of the bar, leaving him to sulk in his drink while Sofiane was apparently too busy with his phone to pay attention. He’s just assumed it would be left to that, and he can’t really tell if he’s relieved or not that it’s not.

“How about you kick mine?”, Eliott mumbles, diving into his beer to take a long sip. “I’m the one who screwed up everything.”

It’s been a weird week. Mostly solitary. Which he’s never minded, up until a few weeks ago, but that is now a teeny, tiny difficult to ignore, because for better or for worse Lucas’ friends seem to have resurfaced, in all their noisy glory. He’s tried to give Lucas an explanation — twice. He knows they need to have this oh-so-uncomfortable conversation, he knows he needs to apologize, but both times his friends were around and he ended up chickening out.

Idriss and Sofiane exchange a glance that he pretends not to catch, then Sofiane puts his phone down and straightens on his chair. “Now we’re going to need a little bit of context.”

“A little bit?” Idriss echoes with a snort, taking a sip of his drink. “We need the entire audio-detailed version at this point.”

Eliott twists his mouth, a little uncomfortable, eyes fixated on his beer. “I kissed a guy.”

_Again_. He doesn’t dare to look up at first, too embarrassed to deal with the expression on Idriss’ face. So yeah. He’s kissed a guy, again. And he’s ruined a budding friendship, _again_. Sure, Idriss let him explain himself back in the days, but the odds of Lucas doing the same are close to none at this point. Not like he can blame him, after all it’s his choice to make, right?

If anything, it just shows that he’ll never fucking learn better. What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?

The silence stretches a little, long enough for Eliott to feel like ants are starting to crawl under his skin.

“Is that the moment we pretend you didn’t come out like ten years ago?” Idriss asks slowly.

He shakes his head. “No. I just-” He swallows, ducking his face as he rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “My neighbor. The guy’s my neighbor. I kissed him. Didn’t go well.”

“Wait are we talking about the asshole one?”, Sofiane chimes in, and in some twisted way he can hear the frown in his voice. It doesn’t exactly sound judgmental or disbelieved, rather… questioning.

Yeah, maybe that.

Eliott nods, fingers absently grazing along his glass. “He broke his leg a couple weeks ago, and I started helping out a bit. We kind of became... friends. Sort of. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, it’s just...” He heaves a sigh, eyes still glued onto the plastic surface of the table. “The other night we were together, playing goddamn FIFA and it just felt like… you know. It felt like _it_.”

His teeth dig into his bottom lip, embarrassment washing over him at the thought and making his cheeks heat up in record-time. The look on Lucas’ face is imprinted in his brain, and has long replaced whatever thing he might have possibly felt the moment their lips touched.

“I just fucked up everything. It’s sad, it’s pathetic, it’s stupid, just go ahead. Say I’m an asshole for ghosting all of you and a dumbass for fucking everything up.”

“Well, that’s a lot of info here,” Sofiane observes slowly after a one-second silence, only disturbed by the humming of the conversations coming from the other tables.

“Look, I’m not gonna say it’s nice when you stop talking for a while,” Idriss says. “It always makes me feel like I did something wrong or like I’m not the friend you need and it… it kind of sucks, I’ll admit. But bro, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Let’s rewind a little for a sec,” Sofiane says. “You said it felt like ‘ _it’_. What do you mean by that?”

_Why the fuck did I say that_ , Eliott groans to himself.

Dammit it’s one thing to feel like a single moron, but it’s a whole other one to try and make your coupled friends make themselves feel bad about your situation. “Dunno,” he mumbles. “We were playing, and teasing each other, and just- I don’t know. There’s just this part of me that wants what you guys have with Imane and Sali and… yeah.” He has a joyless smile. “I guess I’m just not really big on being single at the moment.”

Sofiane hums in response, grabbing a few pistachios from the bowl at the center of their table. “Is that all it is though?”, he asks thoughtfully, and Eliott looks up for the first time in a while. “Is that really all about being in a relationship?”

“Well yeah.” He tries to go for a shrug, but maybe it would work better if he wasn’t already burying himself into self-depreciation in front of his friends. “Probably. I don’t know, I guess it is. I mean, the guy’s an asshole but… We kind of started hanging out and I think I just felt lonely.”

He doesn’t say that the most Lucas and him have done since they started talking together is bickering, because it’s really not going to help his case. Sure Lucas is cute. Awfully so. Once you get used to the frown and the lack of manners, he can be a real gem.

But _come_ _on_.

It doesn’t even make a solid ground for a relationship. Nothing about that dumb kiss makes fucking sense. “He’s gonna fucking murder me,” he sighs, taking another sip.

Idriss leans forward, resting his folded arms on the table. “So you guys haven’t talked yet?”

“No. I tried to make things right the other day but he was busy.”

There’s this tiny, _tiny_ part of him that can’t quite shake the feeling that Lucas having his friends over so often these days is to prove yet another fucking point, but the rational part of it struggles to remind him that Lucas made up with them _before_ his spectacular fuck-up.

It’s got nothing to do with it.

Of course. But still.

“You know I agree with Sof,” Idriss says casually, reclining into his seat. “I don’t think it’s just about getting in a relationship.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you kissed that guy,” his friend says matter-of-factly. “You didn’t kiss Lucille.”

Eliott stares at him for a moment, mind gone a little blank. “Lucille has nothing to do with this.”

“C’mon, we know how you function. Lucille is the easy option. It’s always the one you go back to when you’re feeling lonely or when you’re confused about stuff,” Idriss shrugs, like he’s not openly making a point out of Eliott being a needy, egomaniac bastard.

_It’s not true_ , he wants to say, but even he is forced to admit it is. In some way.

He hates that part of himself, and if anything it makes him feel even worse. So much for the pride of being able to keep a friendly ground with your exes. When it’s paired with the irrepressible need of having someone loving you back, it clearly doesn’t make the best combination. Maybe Lucas is right. Maybe torching your ex’s car and throwing their stuff out of the window is the only valid option.

Thinking about him made something churn inside of him. Fucking hell.

“Whatever,” he says. “I’m not interested in getting back with Lucille. We had our moments but it’s over, and no amount of cheesy insta stories will change that.”

He side-eyes Idriss, who shrugs it off lightly. “I was just happy for you guys.”

“That leaves your neighbor,” Sofiane says unhelpfully. “You do remember that Sali wanted to kick Idriss’ ass the first bunch of times they talked, right?”

“That’s right,” Idriss nods.

“And you do know it’s not something you should be proud of?” Eliott snaps.

Idriss shrugs. “Why not? We made it work in the end,” he retorts, shoving some pistachios in his mouth. “And that’s definitely something I’m proud of.”

**LUNDI, 23:51**

**MERCREDI, 13:27**

He needs to make it right. Really.

The more time passes, the more visceral the need is becoming.

After a fucking week and a half of that treatment, it’s just getting borderline maddening. He’s not good with the art of dissimulation. Playing pretend, pretending that everything is fine, he’s been doing that a lot in the past few years, for reasons much more complicated and much more challenging than just kissing some guy and getting rejected — it’s not something he’s willing to pull.

But since apparently being at peace with himself passes through finally giving Lucas a much-needed explanation, it’s kind of imperative for him to get a _hold_ on him. It’s Wednesday, early in the afternoon, and the irony is that teachers and people on sick-leave share some free-time in common, that he’s planning on using to his advantage.

The flat seems silent from the outside, as Eliott fidgets a little on Lucas’ doorstep. He’s planned for it to be, so technically, it’s fine. Perfect. Good. He takes a sharp inhale before knocking. _Let’s just get this over with_.

Nothing happens. He finds himself listening intently, trying to make up out some sounds, anything that can give him an indication that he should maybe try pleading his cause from the hallway directly — but a truck makes its way down the street, and all Eliott is left to hear is the loud noise of the engine through the paper-thin walls.

He tries again, hoping for the best. Nothing.

As a last resort, he does one more thing he should most definitely not be doing either. He pulls at the handle. Maybe, just maybe, Lucas is busy with his headphones on, he thinks. But then again, nothing happens. The door doesn’t budge.

It’s locked.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for your patience 🙏🏻

**MERCREDI, 19:26**

**JEUDI, 18:14**

Eliott’s head snaps to the side in brutal realization. He looks up from his spot at the window, only to find Lucas mirroring his position in the apartment next door.

The thing is, he doesn’t even know exactly what throws him off the most. The fact that Lucas has texted, the fact that he has slipped a sarcastic comment in it, or the fact that his heartbeat has skyrocketed through the roof because of those two things combined.

They share a glance for a moment, then Lucas gives a small wave that Eliott finds himself awkwardly reciprocating.

After nearly two weeks of radio silence, it feels so alien he’s tempted to start laughing.

With a small engaging nod towards his apartment, Lucas pulls himself away from the window frame, and it takes a few seconds for Eliott to do the same. _You wanted to talk, well, guess you’ll have it in the end_ , he sighs to himself, nervously pulling at this bottom lip as he leaves the window and crosses his flat. Lucas is already stepping in the hallway when Eliott reaches the front door, and immediately-

“Your cast,” Eliott blurts out stupidly, eyes narrowing a little as they immediately stumble onto Lucas’ leg. The blue cast is gone, with its alien head and meaningless doodles, and although his neighbor has mostly found back his regular pace, he still has the habit not to put his full weight onto his freshly healed leg.

Lucas looks down, wriggling his foot a little. “Yeah. Gone with the wind,” he says, sounding a little thoughtful, then he catches himself and looks back up. “It’s a metaphor, I mean. The guy almost sliced my leg in two and the cast was heavy as fuck so now it feels like I’m missing a limb.”

Eliott feels a smile tugging at his lips. “And here I thought you’d pretty much feel the opposite.”

“So you’re an expert in feelings now?” Lucas fires back, and Eliott’s stomach falls brutally, diving in a fucking precipice as the words sting like a slap. It must show, because Lucas himself has a small wince, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “That was harsh. Sorry.”

Eliott swallows, feeling his cheeks heating up under the invisible blow. “No you’re right,” he says, voice a little weak. He clears his throat a little, trying to sound more determined and less… less pathetic, yes, alright. “I wanted to apologize anyway. Been wanting to do that for a few days now. I tried to come by but… you were busy, I guess.”

_Your door was locked_ , he nearly says, but he manages to keep it in because _why_ should it even feel like a betrayal? How much more stupid can he make this situation? Like locking or unlocking a goddamn front door means any fucking thing.

Lucas nods, slipping his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Yeah, I’ve started going outside more. They said the stairs would act as physical therapy so.”

Eliott hums in response. A part of himself is hoping some unknown deity will take pity on him and kill him with a good old thunderbolt — just end his misery already. But no. He’s dug this hole for himself and he’s forced to deal with it now.

“Anyway I… Yeah. I’m sorry. For trying to kiss you,” he says, forcing the word out. “That was stupid, I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I kind of mixed things up a little."

He doesn’t realize he’s particularly staring until he finds himself scrupulously scanning every single one of Lucas’ movement, in case a punch might be on the way. Except that Lucas looks rather… chill. Detached, almost. Not quite relaxed but… yeah. He guesses he should be happy, but it’s harder than it seems.

“It’s fine,” he waves. “I guess I could have reacted better too, it’s just that… yeah, I’m still trying to patch things up with the guys, so like, I could use one more friend at the moment.”

If friendzoning was an Olympic sport he would have just gotten gold medal. Hands down.

_Why do you care_? It’s dumb. Friends is fine. Friends is exactly what he had in mind, the first time he tried to make things right with Lucas. Friends is what they had before he messed it all up, and it was great.

“It’s cool,” Eliott nods, trying to ignore the way his voice sounds almost too quiet. “Maybe we could just, you know, forget about it?”

Lucas cocks an eyebrow, blue eyes widening a little. “Forget about it?” he repeats, then he huffs a laugh. “Dude I’ll let it slide for sure, but I’m fully intending to make fun of you at _literally_ any given opportunity.”

Eliott doesn’t budge. “I thought you wanted us to be friends.”

“So? Don’t you ever roast your friends?” Lucas shrugs.

_Not like that._

He doesn’t really want to know what face he makes at that exact moment, because it probably won’t help his self-esteem, but in any case Lucas seems to pick up on it because he lets out a sigh. “Fine,” he drawls. “I’ll forget about it.”

“Thank you,” Eliott mumbles half-heartedly, only marginally relieved.

He can deal with a lot of bullshit when it comes to Lucas, if the past few weeks are any indication, but this — nope. Sure, he feels bad about the kissing part, because, well, Lucas didn’t ask anything, and obviously he feels like a complete loser for being rejected at the same time. But he also hates the fact that it has completely ruined the balance of their friendship. Now Lucas has all the cards to make his life a living hell, friendly speaking, and he’s not sure this is the type of friendship he can deal with at the moment.

Or like, ever.

“Hey,” Lucas calls out, and Eliott blinks a little. “I asked you if you wanted to watch something.”

Eliott rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh. I’m trying to work a bit on some sketches. Maybe another time?”

Lucas nods, balancing his freshly healed leg a bit. “‘kay. Catch up later.” 

“Sure.”

He forces a smile, and perhaps it comes across as a little tight but he can’t really be bothered to care. Blame it on the workload, blame it on the past few days, blame it on the tension and the added pressure of trying to apologize to the worst person on Earth — blame it on anything you’d like. He’s feeling like shit the moment Lucas walks back to his apartment with a casual wave, and it takes a moment for him to do the same.

They are good. Friends. Awesome.

_I don’t think it’s just about getting in a relationship._

Well maybe not. Maybe Idriss is right. But what’s the point in acknowledging Lucas’ blue eyes, and his devilish grins, and his terrible sense of humor? Denial has a comfort that the harsh truth can’t ever dream of providing. It’s like a warm blanket against the monster under the bed.

It doesn’t matter whether he likes him a little too much or not, it doesn’t matter whether he even _wants_ to like that way, because Lucas only needs a friend.

And too bad if maybe, perhaps, being aware of all of this means he’s already seen his protective blanket disappear. 

**SAMEDI, 19:49**

**SAMEDI, 20:27**

He’s between two songs on his playlist when he hears a knocking sound.

Loud. Obnoxious. With a hint of brutal urgency that could potentially lure you into thinking something very, very bad is happening — which is never the case.

He’s been home for two hours now and he’s spent most of his time with his noise-cancelling headphones on, trying to drown out the rest of the world and possibly get some sketches done — a nice plan that has been followed by absolutely no achievement whatsoever, thanks to his creativity nearing 0 and his fingers feeling too numb and too clumsy.

Maybe he should pretend he’s not home, he thinks blankly as he stares down at the frozen dinner he was about to put in the microwave. Whatever Lucas needs from him can wait another day, right?

_Wrong_.

Because this moron keeps banging on the door, like the whole building is on fire, and it’s only a matter of time before he starts yelling. _Who is he kidding_. Now that he’s got two valid legs and still half a brain, it’s a matter of time before the ultimate act of dumbassery on Lucas’ part — taking down the door, or at least trying to.

He pulls himself away from the kitchen and moves over to the front door with a sigh, putting his headphones down on his way. It’s been a long week. Nerve-wrecking. _It better be short_ , he begrudgingly thinks as he pulls the door open.

“It’s not,” Lucas blurts out immediately, sounding vaguely accusing, all greeting thrown out the window as he strolls past him without any form of ceremony.

Eliott is left to frown in confusion, slowly closing the door. “What?”

Call him shallow but the first thing that he notices, aside from Lucas’ less than amicable entrance, is that he’s gotten a haircut. Which, all in all, makes him look less like a human-sized Troll Doll and more like… More like a very average person.

Moderately good-looking.

Yes. That.

But it’s not like Lucas leaves him the time to pay a compliment, because he’s literally fidgeting in the flat like a caged lion. He turns an irritated glance on him as he scoots around. “Your Instagram post, it’s bullshit. It’s not all in your head. You didn’t mix things up. Well, not the way you think you did.” 

“Are you drunk again?”, Eliott asks suspiciously.

Lucas scoffs. “What? _No_!” and then after a second, he adds in a semi-mumble: “Although now I kind of wish I was.”

“Why?”

“Because it sucks! You really fucking suck,” Lucas yells, loud and irritated. “Why do you have to be like that? Here I am, trying my goddamn best, and all you do is being… like _that_ and acting like _that_ , and what am I supposed to do now, _uh_?”

“Lucas for fuck’s sake I don’t understand _shit_ ,” Eliott hisses, annoyance turning into frustration. So what? He’s supposed to just accept that Lucas is going to barge in and start insulting him _for the rest of his fucking life_ , for whatever good reason he’s not even bothering to provide?

Hell fucking no. People-pleaser perhaps, but not a fucking doormat.

“I ruin things!” Lucas exclaims. “Okay? That’s what I do! I ruin things. I’ve got a shit ton of issues I should probably work on but who has the fucking time for that, right? I’m angry and bitter and petty and jealous. My friends…” His voice trails off a little, then he lets out an exasperated sigh. “They’re right. Okay? I _am_ possessive. It gets ugly when I care and- yeah. I care about you. I like you too, dumbass, but I also like what we have, and I _know_ it will go to shit if it gets any farther.”

_I like you too_.

Oh.

_Oh_. Okay. Cool. Fine. He’s totally, a hundred percent chill. No fucking reason to-

“You like me,” Eliott says, unable to shut his goddamn trap. He just can’t. Sue him.

Lucas gives him a look, still looking as annoyed as when he walked in. Like he hasn’t dropped that bomb on him, like he didn’t _just_ insult him like any other day. “Seriously? That’s the only thing you’re keeping from everything I said?”

Eliott crosses his arms over his chest. “Well excuse me for getting interested when the guy I have feelings for is telling me he likes me back.”

_Feelings for_. What a way to go, Demaury, he cringes inwardly. When did a simple crush upgrade to full-on feelings? Fuck. He’s really fucking messing with his head.

“Are you _dense_? It doesn’t matter if I like you or not! We’re not doing this,” Lucas snaps, making Eliott’s insides twist. “You’re my neighbor! How do you even expect things to go if they don’t work out? Haven’t the past few days been enough already?”

“So in short you came here to tell me you like me but that you’re not even willing to give us a chance,” Eliott sums up dryly, trying not to come off as pained as he’s feeling. It’s one thing to have a crush on someone and for it to be unrequited, but _fuck_.

This is another level of fucked-up.

“Stop making it a big deal,” Lucas retorts briskly, ever so stubborn. “Plenty more fishes in the goddamn sea. _Easier_ fishes.”

Well he can be stubborn too. Stubborn as hell even.

“Then why confess at all?”

It seems to take Lucas aback a little. “Because despite what you probably think of me, I’m not a complete asshole,” he retorts. “I don’t want you to think it was all in your damn head because that shit hits extra hard.”

_Nice_ , he almost says sarcastically. He’s going to hold onto that the next time Lucas decides to bring someone to fuck him in his shower and he’s left to hear everything.

“I thought you believed in soulmates,” he hears himself saying instead.

Something like surprise flickers in Lucas’ eyes, and it takes him a second before he snorts a dismissive: “Come on, don’t be so full of yourself.”

Along with his personal feelings, that have gone from 1 to 10 in a matter of seconds in Lucas’ ever so desirable presence, the pang in Eliott’s chest has also upgraded, turning into a full-on stabbing pain that is probably very much Lucas’ intent.

“I’m not full of myself,” he argues. “The guy who’s made for you, that guy exists, somewhere, _you_ told me you believe in that, and of course it’s probably not me, but so what? Would you just turn your back on that guy too? Just because… I don’t know, because the situation isn’t ideal? Because he’s one of your colleagues? Because he lives two floors down? Because you have friends in common, because he plays FIFA online with you?”

“I don’t owe you anything,” Lucas replies coolly through gritted teeth. “Just because you’re crushing on me-”

“Well guess what, _you’re_ crushing on me _too_ , too fucking bad,” Eliott cuts him off, taking a step forward, arms still resolutely folded in front of him. “This thing, this isn’t one-sided, you literally just said so. And you know what? If it were, I’d be okay with it. I’m not 14. I know damn well I can’t force my feelings on you until you like me back, and I know that dumb kiss the other day isn’t playing in my favor, but I can’t do anything about it except apologize.” Lucas makes a noise of protest and tries to get his two cents but Eliott doesn’t let him and starts speaking louder, harsher, because _goddamn it_ , that situation is fucking surreal. “If that was all it was, I’d just take my distance for a while, get over you, maybe start dating until it’s gone and we can hang out again together without making it weird, because that’s how life works. But it’s _not_ one-sided. You _do_ like me back. So what are we supposed to do, since you seem to have all of that shit figured out already?”

“ _Fuck you_ Demaury,” Lucas spits out, “I’m trying to tell you that us together will be a fucking mess!”

There’s a one-second silence, and Eliott cocks an eyebrow. “Will?”, he said calmly, obnoxiously so.

Lucas seems to freeze for a fleeting moment, but then it’s all gone and he’s back to trying to drill holes into Eliott’s skin. “... Would,” he corrects pointedly. “Us together _would_ be a fucking mess.”

Eliott heaves a sigh. “Well you know what? Life is messy. Alright? Relationships are messy. _People_ are messy.”

“Eliott I’m serious,” Lucas says again, and in the midst of a situation like this, Eliott should most definitely _not_ be so obsessed with the way his name rolls on his tongue. “You’d hate me! You’d hate me every time I ask where you were and snap when the answer is too vague, you’d hate me every time I find that your friends are too handsy, or that your exes are lurking around, and _God_ _forbid_ if I get the feeling that your family doesn’t like me.” He shakes his head. “And at first maybe you’d think it’s fine. Maybe you’d think that you can handle it, because we’re having some fun, because the sex is good, because I know I fucked up so I’d try to make it up to you, but then one day you’ll come home, and you’ll be tired, and you’ll snap and that will only go fucking downhill after that.” He pauses, and swallows his saliva. “You’d hate me and you’d be right to, because this… That’s what I do.”

_I ruin things_ , he had said.

_Well go ahead, ruin me_ , a stupid, selfish part of Eliott screams. _Let’s ruin each other_.

He thinks back about those nights never spoken of with Lucille, where he’d just go out and dig an even deeper hole for his self-esteem. He thinks about the taste of strangers on his tongue, about the pulsating music of nameless clubs, about the times he had kept it in his pants and those he hadn’t. He thinks about Idriss, and Sofiane, about the dad jokes in moments of stress and the tight hugs when the world comes crashing down. He thinks about Lucille still hanging out with them on the regular, about his parents only speaking highly of her, about his sister who has close to no brain-to-mouth filter.

Lucas has a point. They could be hell for each other. But he has this nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, they can be the perfect, perhaps most fucked-up for all he knew, combination possible.

“What if I am,” he says after a moment. “Your soulmate. Someone has to be, right?”

Lucas jaws contract as he looks away, glaring at an invisible spot. “Stop making fun of me.”

“I’m not,” he protests, earnest, and he takes another step forward. “I’m dead serious. Do you know anyone who would have put up with you the way _I did_? I didn’t even like you back then,” he scoffs, and Lucas gives him a look he’s not really sure how to interpret. It throws him off a little bit, but at least Lucas isn’t yelling anymore and he takes it as a good sign to continue. “But still I came back, and we talked, and you kept insulting me, but… still I came back. So either I’m the densest guy on this planet-”

“You’re setting yourself up,” Lucas mutters.

“- _or_ I’m just capable of seeing past your bullshit the way someone who can truly love you should be able to.”

_Love_. Fuck.

He didn’t even mean to use that word in particular, but now it’s too late and all he can do is stare back at Lucas. Probably waiting for him to start laughing at him; tell him he’s such a dumbass that even having a crush on him is embarrassing.

“What makes you think you’re so special,” Lucas says, almost quiet. “What makes you think that other people haven’t figured me out before?”

“Because I’m the one you’re pushing away.” Another step forward. Another attempt to catch his eyes. “Because you came here tonight, and because we wouldn’t be having this conversation if you really didn’t care.”

Lucas lets out a slightly watery breath, and tears his eyes away with a joyless smile. “This is going to be ugly.”

“You don’t know that,” he says. “Lucas, I’m sure there’s an explanation to the way you’re feeling and I’m not saying it has no place to be. But right now it’s just you and me. You like me. I like you. And pretending it doesn’t exist just because you’re scared to see if the other shoe drops, it’s not fair. Not just for me, but especially for you.”

_You’re a great guy. You deserve this. You deserve more._

The apartment goes silence for a handful of second, and Eliott swears he hears a clock ticking — except the only clock he has doesn’t make any noise. _Tic, tic, tic_. Everything is coming full force onto him. All the stuff he’s turned a blind eye on because _really_ , he didn’t love Lucas _like that_ , and then because _really_ , Lucas didn’t need someone crushing on him, and now?

Now he’s totally screwed.

Lucas looks up eventually, and Eliott feels his heart pounding into his chest. “So what? We’re just supposed to wake up every day and see if you don’t want to smash my head into a wall just yet?”

Eliott has a lopsided smile. “Been there, almost done that.”

“Fuck you,” Lucas huffs, shaking his head. “I already want to punch you and it hasn’t even been five minutes.” 

“Five minutes of what?”, Eliott says innocently, biting back a smile.

He wants him to say it. That he wants him. That he wants them.

Lucas doesn’t flinch. “Of us being a fucking mess.”

Eliott hums. “Well I think we’re still doing alright.”

“Oh yeah?”

Last step. It’s stupid, but in that moment it feels like they’ve never been closer, even if he knows it’s the complete opposite. They’ve watched stuff together, he’s painted his goddamn cast. They have eaten and gotten drunk together, and passed out in the same bed. They’ve played video games for ten hours and yet. In that moment, with both of them standing in the middle of Eliott’s flat, something feels different.

Not like any other time he’s been in Lucas’ personal space.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think we should even celebrate that first win.”

They stare at each other for a moment.

“Jesus, just do it already,” Lucas groans, and just like that, with just enough annoyance to make it sound like he really doesn’t care all that much, he grabs Eliott’s face and pulls him down, smashing their mouths together.

It’s different from Eliott’s pitiful attempt. It’s harsh and bruising like Lucas, like them, perhaps even passionate for all he knows. It doesn’t make sense, not in the way he’s expected it to the first time — it doesn’t make sense that they’d kiss now, after yelling at each other, after Lucas telling him there’s no place for them in this fucking world.

But maybe it was supposed to be that way all along.

They don’t make sense, and in that moment he’s fucking okay with it.

Eliott’s hands find Lucas’ waist, pulling him closer until there’s no more space between them, and in a weirdly synchronized way Lucas’ hands let go of his face. He wraps his arms around his shoulders, mouths moving together hungrily, and when Eliott bites into Lucas’ plump bottom lip, he lets out the softest, but most satisfying gasp Eliott has ever fucking heard.

They break apart like they’ve come together, a little sudden, a little stunned, but their lips are resolutely close as Lucas whispers: “FYI, _that’s_ a kiss.”

Eliott lets out a groan, ducking his face to the side. “So we’re just gonna bring that up whenever you feel like it? Even when I specifically asked you _not_ to?”

Lucas makes an affirmative sound, a smirk on his face. “ _Now_ you’re getting a handle on what being with me looks like. Still interested?”

Something catches in Eliott’s throat, and he feels the exact moment the colors drain from his face.

“Hey, I was joking,” Lucas perks up. They’re still into each other’s arms, but Eliott’s embrace starts to loosen and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Lucas seeks eye-contact, frown knitting his brows together. “Damn, that’s, like a _major_ turn-off for you, uh?”

“No, it’s not-,” but his voice trails off. His thumb mechanically brushes at Lucas’ side, and it takes him a few seconds to meet Lucas’ eyes. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he says, chewing a little onto his bottom lip.

It’s not that hard usually. He can even say he got better at it with the years — but maybe it’s just because he hasn’t had anyone he truly cares about learning about this in a long while.

“Lucas, I’m bipolar.” He feels his heartbeat and his speech-rate quickening at the same time as he presses on: “I’m mostly stable now, I’ve been for a while, I just… Yeah. Still bipolar.” _Still me. Still the guy you like_. “I know I’m not making a case, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner but- if we’re doing this, I have to be honest with you.”

Lucas ponders his answer, then gives a small nod. “Okay.”

Eliott meets his eyes, staring into those deep blue eyes in search of something he can’t quite put into words. “That’s it?”, he says bluntly, cocking an eyebrow. “Most people would consider that a deal breaker but… You don’t. I mean you don’t look surprised.” 

Lucas gives a small shrug. “‘cause I’m not.”

“Surprised? Or most people?” 

“Both. Neither.” Lucas’ eyes fall somewhere, technically on Eliott’s clavicle but he assumes it’s just an invisible spot. “The day I… snooped around, I found your meds. I’d like to say I didn’t mean to find them but it would be a false excuse. I did mean to snoop around and I’m sorry.” He adjusts his arms around Eliott’s shoulders, and Eliott finds that he likes the way they are holding each other. After a second, Lucas looks back up. “Couple years back my mom got misdiagnosed for a while and… Yeah. Long story short, the name on the box rang a bell. I just wasn’t sure which one until now.”

It takes a few seconds for Eliott to process. If Lucas found his meds that time he’d left him alone at his place, then it means he already had clues when he was down for two days. Most specifically when he told him to fuck off. “So that’s why you were so chill,” Eliott says, not bothering to elaborate. He has the feeling that Lucas will get what this was about anyway.

“I’m _always_ chill.”

“That’s not even close to reality.”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “You’re right, right now I’m the opposite of chill, because I’m trying to make out with a tall guy and he’s denying that to me.”

Eliott brushes their noses together, his lips hovering over Lucas’. “ ‘That all I am, uh? Some tall guy?”

He wants to insist some more. Tell him that it won’t always be easy, that it won’t always be this simple. That the most he’s seen of him not being well is the best-case scenario. But right now-

“Uh-huh. For now maybe,” Lucas says offhandedly, and he pulls him down a little bit more. “You’re gonna have to pull some more tricks to-”

He doesn’t have the time to finish his sentence, because Eliott wraps his arms around his waist and lifts him up, Lucas’ legs immediately circling his waist in reflex. “Would that be better?” he whispers, pressing a kiss onto Lucas’ lips between every word.

Lucas doesn’t bother giving him an answer, only an approving groan. They dive back into the kiss, tongues sliding together, Lucas’ fingers tugging at the strands of hair at the back of his head.

Still holding Lucas tightly close, Eliott takes the few more steps separating them from his bed, ultimately toppling in bed together. It’s not that Lucas is heavy — God he really isn’t, he’s more on the light side and it makes Eliott want to never let go of him, which he’s absolutely _never_ going to say aloud — but more that Eliott isn’t exactly bulky either and there’s this thing called gravity that he’s forgotten about.

That bitch stupidly sends him crashing into Lucas, who lets out a groan as his weight presses him down in the mattress.

“Sorry,” he mumbles hastily, suddenly terrified that he has somehow managed to hurt Lucas’ freshly healed leg. “I really didn’t mean to-”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Lucas scoffs, and since Eliott isn’t budging he purses his lips. “If you start treating me like I’m a fragile piece of glass, I _will_ snap, Demaury.” And with that he worms his way from under him. Next thing Eliott knows, he flips them over, climbing on top of him and crashing their mouths back together.

If there’s one thing Eliott can’t accuse Lucas of, it’s that he’s not the kind to get side-tracked.

Definitely not. He knows what he wants, and when he wants it, that’s for sure.

His mouth is hot, insistent, his tongue pushing its way into Eliott’s open mouth, and it makes his heart pound inside his ribcage. His hands shoot up absently, fisting Lucas’ shirt, roaming his back, his sides, his thighs on each side of him.

“Shirt,” Lucas mumbles between kisses, and Eliott’s first instinct is to sit up to follow Lucas’ lips when he reclines in a sitting position, still straddling him. Lucas unceremoniously grabs the hem of Eliott’s shirt and pulls it over his head. Eliott’s hands immediately reciprocate, tossing Lucas’ to the side in one swift movement before letting his hands wander some more along his sides.

It’s all so electrifying he’s not sure he’s capable of thinking straight.

He starts leaving open-mouthed kisses over the exposed skin, lips wandering, adding more pressure into his kisses on the thin skin covering his collarbones while Lucas lets out quiet gasps that keep urging him on. His fingers dig into Lucas’ sides while he sucks a hickey there, then another and another, tongue soft and soothing after the faint scraping of teeth over the smooth skin. Ducking his face even lower, sliding an arm around Lucas’ waist to press them closer, Eliott lets his mouth graze over his nipple, not much at first — not until a louder gasp escapes Lucas’ lips in anticipation, and that Eliott takes it in his mouth. Lucas’ fingers tighten at the back of his head, pulling demandingly, urging him to give him more as his hips jerk forward.

A sharper pull of the hair yanks Eliott’s face back, and the sight of Lucas like this, towering above him, blue eyes blown and lips red from biting, he can swear his pants just grew two size smaller. There comes a moment when they just _stop_ growing tighter and tighter _right_? Lucas doesn’t leave him the time to consider his new-found misery before smashing their mouths together, tongues sliding messily. Eliott feels his hands move around, sliding down his face then his shoulders, further and further down his chest, until Lucas’ fingers pop open the button of his jeans and slide down the zipper, releasing some pressure on his straining erection.

“You do know,” Lucas says against his lips, “that you’ll have to move your ass to get these off right?”

Eliott lets out a chuckle. “And here I thought you had everything planned out.”

Lucas breaks apart, scrambling his way to stand up, Eliott’s hand catching his to pull himself up as well. “Can’t believe you’re just the wait-and-see kind, I expected better,” he huffs, shoving his sweatpants down without much concern for Eliott’s far too tight jeans requiring much more gymnastics.

_I’m fucking burning all of my jeans_.

Might as well do that.

If Lucas is bound to stick around, he’ll just start wearing sweatpants on the daily. And basketball shorts. Or maybe nothing at all when he’s home, because _fuck_ , the moment Eliott’s eyes fall onto Lucas’ body, racking over the bulge in his black Calvin Klein’s, he genuinely starts thinking of it as the most insanely gorgeous thing in the goddamn whole wide world, and it’d be worth any wardrobe change. Jeans kicked aside, his hands immediately find Lucas, longingly wandering across the warm skin like they’ve already seen it all and can’t wait to get back to it.

“Well, too fucking bad,” he whispers into Lucas’ ear, tugging at the waistband of his boxers to pull them down, “no return policy.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lucas huffs, but it quickly turns into an urging moan as Eliott’s hand wraps around his length. He pushes into his hand, searching for more. “But I need to…” His voice trails off, breath hitching soundly as he lets out a choked-off noise when Eliott gives a sharp pump. His forehead drops against Eliott’s shoulder, nearly mouthing the words into his skin, “I need to make sure the product’s alright,” he pants, and Eliott feels a shiver run its course all over his body.

It’s a maddening feeling that made his head spin — nothing about Lucas feels new, yet all of him feels desirable. Like they’ve always known each other, like this was just a matter of time before all of this happened. _Again_ , perhaps, for all he knows. Maybe their parallel universe selves have already felt all of this, experienced all of this.

Maybe in this other universe, they’ve met in that café, and Lucas didn’t hate him all that much.

Maybe he didn’t even hate him at all.

“Did the same with your dildo?”, Eliott muses, and Lucas lets out a groan of protest as Eliott’s hold loosens around him. “Ripped the package open because you couldn’t wait to fuck yourself on your shiny toy?”

Lucas looks up with blown eyes. “Well at least I didn’t have to _wait_ for the fucking part,” he rasps, and it sparkles something in Eliott. Not the dildo part, no. He’s not dumb enough to be jealous of a fucking plastic toy — but the thought of Lucas trying to fuck himself with one? All messy-haired and worked-up, writhing on his bed and trying to stifle his moans?

That shit is devastatingly riling him up.

He unceremoniously shoves Lucas back onto the bed, climbing between his parted legs. He takes a moment to let his eyes roam over Lucas’ body, his flushed cheeks, his messy hair, his red and swollen lips. The constellation of hickeys starting to bloom on his chest, the beauty marks he’s seeing for the first time, the tight muscles not far underneath the smooth skin that make him want to run his tongue in all kind of places. And then Lucas’ cock, hard and leaking, curving against his stomach.

“Just do something already,” Lucas huffs, not shying away when they make eye contact, and _God,_ Eliott loves that about him. He loves that he’s like that, impatient, unapologetic, with a kind of insolence that makes him ache to ravish him. Make him lose his edge, his composure.

He feels a smirk tugging at his lips as he crawls on top of him. “You like saying that a lot,” he whispers, voice rougher than usual as he nips at Lucas’ jawline.

“I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t so fucking _slow_.” He gives Eliott a kick in the shoulder.

“Some things require patience,” Eliott says in a chuckle, like he’s not losing his goddamn mind himself and that every single point of touch between them isn’t threatening to kill him if he doesn’t _quickly_ move the situation along. “Don’t you want me to take my time with you?” he asks again, lips trailing down his neck while he extends an arm to the side, rummaging in his bedside table for the necessary supplies. “Work you open so fucking slowly that you lose your mind? That you start begging for _me_?”

“No fucking way,” Lucas groans stubbornly, but his hips bucking up in search of release betray him. “I’ve waited fucking months for that, _fuck,_ you better hurry up, I swear-”

_Uh_ - _oh_.

Eliott pauses briefly, just as he’s dropping a bottle of lube on the side of the mattress. “What did you just say?”

This time again, Lucas doesn’t shy away, but his eyes flare up. “If you make me talk about it now and that I have to get off _by myself_ , I’m setting this building on fire with you inside.” And with that he shifts a little, squeezing his thighs around his sides, and Eliott forgets why he’s not already fucking him into oblivion.

Everything else can wait, he decides, blood pounding into his ears.

And it absolutely doesn’t matter in the end, if maybe Lucas has wanted him even longer than Eliott did. Nope. He forgets about it as he slowly works him open, careful ministrations making the anticipation build up to the point of unbearable. He c _ompletely_ forgets. It doesn’t even matter. It doesn’t even matter because Lucas keeps being a little shit, writhing and urging him on, a beautiful yet nerve-wracking mess under his fingers. It doesn’t _matter_ because even if Lucas had fallen for him yesterday, so long as he loves him back it’s enough.

But still. When Lucas’ mouth falls open, going slack as Eliott pushes in, guiding himself with one hand and fisting Lucas’ hair with the other-

It matters a little.

It matters to know that maybe, just maybe, he’s been loved all along. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys 💖💕  
> so yeah, this is it, the last chapter 🤧🥺 i'm saving some tears for later this week. The chapter count gained a 9th chapter, but it was planned all along and it will (only) be an epilogue, which i hope you'll enjoy as well 🤗 it should arrive sooner than next Tuesday, so stay tunned 👀

**DIMANCHE, 09:21**

Eliott has never quite envisioned himself as a poet. Sure he’s always been more of a literature creature (he’s hopeless when it comes to math), and maybe a few poems keep resonating every now and then, and yes, _alright_ , he does consider himself a romantic soul — but waxing poetry about his significant other doesn’t quite come naturally, especially when it’s about Lucas. _Lucas_ , of all people.

If you asked Eliott only a few days ago what’s soft about him, he would’ve had to say his hair as a last resort, because this guy is about as soft as a kitchen knife.

But now-

Well. Now it seems different. Just a little.

Lost in his thoughts, he reaches across the other pillow, brushing a strand of hair away from Lucas’ forehead absentmindedly. Maybe it’s all because the room is filled with soft yellows and oranges. Maybe it’s because once Lucas shuts up and is out of it, he can (potentially) look like some kind of an angel, all thick eyelashes and relaxed face, smooth skin and perfect lips. And the thing is, Eliott _does_ like him the way he is, he likes him fierce and unapologetic, he likes him even as annoying as he is, but this…

It just hits different, he thinks, hand wandering up to thread through his hair.

Before he can even blink, a hand shoots up and fingers wrap around his wrist, making him startle a little. Something churns in his stomach as Lucas sharply drags his hand away, and perhaps it’s a bit out of disappointment — but then he feels a gentle brush of lips against his palm. He beams. Forgotten the good old disappointment — a smile blooms on his face, and Lucas lets go of his wrist, eyes slowly fluttering open.

“’You gonna stop breathing every time I touch you now?”, he mumbles sleepily, eyebrows furrowing as he stirs awake.

Eliott snorts and pulls himself closer, propped up on one elbow. “I didn’t stop breathing,” he corrects pointedly. “Maybe I just… _held_ _my breath_. At most. And it wasn’t because you _touched me_ , but more because you shoved my hand away.”

Lucas gives him a look. “Do you want me to show you what shoving away means?”

“Jesus, why are you like this?”, Eliott huffs, and Lucas shrugs, rolling onto his back with a lazy smile on his face as he lets his eyelids fall shut.

“I don’t care. You still like me.”

“Yeah,” Eliott admits with a sigh. He slides an arm along Lucas’, the one that’s resting on his stomach, and intertwines their fingers. “Yeah, okay, I do. And I’ll have to take 100% of the blame for that one because… well, you’re not very likable, to begin with.”

Lucas’ eyes fly open and he turns an offended face his way. Eliott can’t hold back a chuckle that makes Lucas huff in protest. “ _Lies_. I’m plenty likable.”

“Oh yeah?”, he grins. “Say something nice then.”

Lucas ponders his answer, and Eliott unabashedly revels in the sight of him — the sleep-warm skin, the ocean blue eyes still a little droopy, the pillow mark across his cheek. A few of the bruises Eliott has left in his wake last night are turning a darker shade, littering their way across Lucas’ chest, but he can’t even feel bad about it. If anything, history has proven that Lucas was a bruises magnet — not everything can be his fault, right?

“I like your bed,” Lucas eventually says, lightly tugging at their entwined fingers.

Eliott cocks an eyebrow. “You like my bed.”

Lucas shrugs. “Yeah. It’s a nice bed. Much comfier than my own.”

With a scoff Eliott shakes his head, pulling himself away a little. “Yours isn’t even a bed. It’s a couch, that _turns_ _into_ a bed.”

“All the more reasons for me to sleep here,” Lucas says casually. His eyes trail away to the ceiling. “In like, five years, people will ask me why I stuck around with you and I’ll say ‘oh, that’s because of the bed’, and since people are morons they’ll be like ‘oh he’s _that_ good’, and I’ll say, ‘oh no, he’s average, but his _bed_ , it’s the holy grail of beds’.”

_In five years_. Uh-huh. So this idiot wasn’t even willing to give them a chance 24h ago but now he’s picturing them five years down the road with a pet and a mortgage. The Lallemant logic is truly something else, but he doesn’t dare to bring it up — part of him wants to hold onto that thought for a little while longer.

“Did you just say I was average?”, he deadpans instead.

Lucas doesn’t even flinch. “Yes. Average.”

Eliott pulls his hand away from Lucas’, dropping himself back onto his pillow. “You didn’t sound like I was being average last night,” he retorts with a hint of disdain. Not like his dick just twitched in interest at the thought, _no._

Lucas smirks. “I told you already, I believe in the virtue of tough love.”

Eliott gives a small shrug, folding his arms behind his head as he rolls onto his back. “Well, I believe in the opposite.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Lucas twists around until he’s resting onto his side. “And what does that sound like?”

He gives himself a moment to think about it. “Well, telling your partner that they make your life better for instance,” Eliott says. “Telling them that they’re really, really beautiful in the morning. That their energy makes you feel at peace, that their company is never boring. That you’re happy to see them, even if it’s between two doors… That sort of things.”

Lucas hums, snaking an arm around Eliott’s waist to pull himself closer. “So, by your standards, I should tell my boyfriend that he’s probably gonna be the best thing that’s happened to me then?”, he asks thoughtfully.

The word _boyfriend_ outright makes his stomach do a somersault, but maybe it also has to do with Lucas’ hand resting on his belly and the way Lucas’ voice is getting slower and deeper as he presses on: “That crushing on him was _unnerving_ because when you live next to a goddamn ten no one looks even remotely good afterwards? That I just wanted to _die_ the day he barged in because I was a fucking mess and I didn’t really fancy him seeing me like this?” It was barely a whisper when he said, eyes soft yet firmly planted into Eliott’s: “That he’s hands down the best person I know? _That_ sort of things?”

Eliott swallows. “Yeah,” he says quietly, unable to fully understand everything because he’s a fucking, dumb human, and the very fact that Lucas would touch him and look him in the eye the way he does is already making him feel all sorts of things. “Stuff like that.”

Something flickers in Lucas’ eyes, and he lets out a laugh, pulling away a little. “You’re such a fucking sap, I swear. Can’t believe I signed up to be with a goddamn Care Bear.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”, Eliott growls.

His arm shoots down and wraps around Lucas’ waist to keep him close, rolling over to pin him down with his weight as Lucas tries to wrestle free with a breathy fit of laughter that fills the silent apartment and threatens to make Eliott’s heart leap out. Lucas’ eyes are sparkling with mischief as he looks up to him, barely trying to conceal the broad smile on his face, and in that moment, Eliott feels like he’s on the top of the fucking world.

Adjusting his weight a little, he cages Lucas’ head with his arms and leans down to press a kiss onto his lips, Lucas’ mouth opening for him without even a second thought. He can’t really tell how long they stay like this, kissing until their jaws hurt and their lips tingle, easing in and out of it long enough to take a breath, steal a glance, and pull the other back in.

At some point Eliott’s lips trail off to the side, following the sharp edge of Lucas jawline as he peppers small pecks all over the skin. “Okay so, just to be clear,” he whispers into Lucas’ ear, “you were crushing on me for _months_ and you’ve never even thought that not making a move at all was a dumb idea?”

Lucas groans in harmless annoyance, turning his face away. It made Eliott laugh and he pressed a few more kisses onto the exposed skin. “I never said I was crushing on you for months,” Lucas says stubbornly.

“You did. Twice,” Eliott replies between kisses, biting back a grin. “If I remember correctly the first one was last night, when you were literally begging me to fuck you.”

It earns him a hit in the shoulder and a scoff. “I didn’t _beg_.”

Eliott pulls away from his neck, and turns Lucas’ face towards him to make eye contact. “You threatened to set the building on fire though.” The thought of it sparks something in the pit of his stomach, and for a second he feels like he’s about to combust.

“Look, if you want to go over everything that happened last night, you’re not gonna brag for long,” Lucas retorts.

“Me? I was flawless.”

Lucas’ hands trail down, squeezing his ass harshly through the sheets. “Oh, _baby_ , would you moan like that with your toy?”, he asks in a low, panting whisper.

A very, _very cringy_ rendition of Eliott’s voice, it’s worth noting. He doesn’t even remember saying that. Nope. For all he knows, maybe Lucas is just messing with him. _Obviously_.

“Oh my God, shut _up_.”

“You’re fucking obsessed with a goddamn purple plastic toy,” Lucas laughs, “just admit it.”

“I’m not.”

It’s Lucas’ turn to press a kiss onto his cheek. “You totally are,” he mumbles with a smile, chasing Eliott’s lips.

And who’s Eliott to deny him a kiss, uh?

He happily obliges, bringing their mouths together in a slow, languid kiss that sparks a fire in the pit of his stomach and makes him harden against Lucas’ thigh. It’s not long before he feels himself rocking against him, an appreciative moan rumbling from deep inside Lucas’ throat as he travels his hands up and down Eliott’s back, pressing him closer, ever so closer-

“Fuck,” Lucas curses, breaking the kiss with a hiss.

Eliott frowns in confusion, blinking a little. “Everything okay?”

Lucas wriggles underneath and without completely rolling off of him, Eliott lays on his side as Lucas starts giving relentless kicks in the air with his freshly healed leg. “Yeah, it’s just some-” He pauses and gives a few more kicks before turning back to Eliott. “Some dumb cramp,” he says with a wave. “No biggie.”

Eliott hums into the kiss, an arm circling his waist, his other hand cupping Lucas’ face. They start kissing again, but after only a moment Lucas pulls away. “Fucking shit,” he grumbles. He sits up and starts rubbing an invisible spot onto his leg. “I need to go grab something for that or I’ll never see the fucking end of it.”

Eliott sits up too, ruffling his hair as Lucas crankily stands up in search of his discarded underwear.

“You’re coming back, right?”, he asks offhandedly, eyes unabashedly racking over Lucas’ body as he slides into his Calvin Klein boxers.

Lucas looks up with a grumpy face, but surprisingly enough the frown seems to soften. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He takes a step closer to the bed, limping a little, and pecks Eliott on the lips. “Do I _have_ to?”

“Yes,” Eliott says, holding him back for another kiss. “For the bed. Remember?”

Lucas snorts. “For the bed,” he says, pulling himself away.

Eliott watches him walk out the door in nothing but his underwear, appreciating the curve of his lower back and his spikey hair, before flopping down on the bed with a contented sigh.

**DIMANCHE, 10:56**

****

**DIMANCHE, 12:34**

“I didn’t know you liked cooking so much,” Eliott observes casually, curiously peering above Lucas’ shoulder from his spot next to the tiny kitchen table.

It’s as close as Lucas is willing to let him get — and only after an extensive debate that has seen Lucas wave in Eliott’s face his inability to crack an egg in a bowl, and not on the floor.

(In his defense, he was drunk, but it’s not like Lucas is willing to let it slide.)

“It’s literally pancakes, calm down,” Lucas says, pouring a ladleful of batter in the pan. Like he hadn’t already started the recipe before Eliott had even finished sliding into his underwear next door.

Around noon, their stomachs had started rumbling, obnoxiously loud in Eliott’s quiet apartment. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, really, except that Eliott had Lucas pinned down on the mattress, writhing and stifling his moans in his shoulder as a couple of sharp and well-aimed thrusts were really, really close to bring him on the edge — kind of a mood-killer, if you asked him. The betrayal had first come from Eliott’s stomach, but it had been soon followed by Lucas’, and it was with a raspy, breathy laugh that they had come, just a moment apart.

Needless to say, a trip to Lucas’ apartment (where, as it turned out, most edible things were) had proved to be absolutely necessary, as soon as they had come down from their high long enough to consider even moving.

“Well, sometimes I fail at making coffee,” Eliott mutters.

A casual shrug. “Whatever, I’m only trying not to starve to death.”

“No, _that_ is what _I_ do,” Eliott chuckles, eyes running up and down Lucas’ back where his hands can’t. At least this time Lucas hasn’t outwardly forbidden him the entire apartment. He’s apparently still banished from even touching the stove, but at this point he can’t deny he’s a bit clingy and he’s not exactly sure it would be the safest option for them both. “You keep surprising me.”

Lucas moves the pan, running his free hand through his unkept hair at the same time. “I thought we had already established I’m the most interesting human being you’ve ever encountered,” he says bluntly, voice even sounding slightly bored. "It's starting to get a little old."

Eliott huffs and shakes his head. “Someone’s getting big-headed.”

“Says the one who called himself my fucking soulmate.”

“Yes because we’ve also established I’m the romantic one.”

Lucas snickers, throwing a quick glance above his shoulder. “You don’t even _believe_ in soulmates,” he says, punctuating it with a click of his tongue before letting his attention drift back to the stove.

Eliott doesn’t try to fight the grin that crept up his lips, and just as Lucas reaches for the plate waiting on the counter, he swiftly slides into his personal space. “I’m starting to reconsider my position,” he says conversationally, while Lucas flips a third pancake in the plate. “New information and stuff.”

Lucas huffs in mock-exasperation, swatting his shoulder. When he puts it back down, the pan hits the stove with a metallic noise, as if to prove a point. “And I’m trying to cook. Do something useful for once,” he snaps, shoving the plate in his hands.

Eliott cocks an eyebrow intently, and after a good few seconds of them measuring each other, Lucas eventually gives in, pecking him on the lips quickly before going back to his pancakes. It’s such a short gesture, the _barest fucking minimum_ , but still it makes Eliott beam like an idiot. Like Lucas just handed him the moon and the stars in that plate.

It’s in moments like these that Eliott realizes he’s well and truly fucked.

Because even with Lucille he can’t even remember ever feeling like that.

He doesn’t resist and plants a kiss in Lucas’ neck, on the small patch of skin exposed by his tee-shirt. “You got any more secret talents?”, he asks, nuzzling against his ear for a second, before reaching to pick up a Nutella jar on the counter.

“Can’t tell,” Lucas says, sounding very serious above the sizzling noise of the batter poured in the pan. “I gotta keep some stuff for the first date.” 

Eliott smirks, looking up from a Nutella half-covered pancake. “Are you asking me out, Lallemant?”

That guy’s honestly the worst — and simultaneously the best. 

Lucas gives a flippant shrug. He grabs another plate for himself, sliding the first pancake in mechanically. “I mean, might as well check that off the list, right?”

“Sure. Rip-off the band-aid and all,” Eliott says, stopping his task to retrieve two cups in the cupboard and pour themselves some coffee.

Lucas turns around, eyeing him for a second, before going back to his pancakes. “I get to pick the restaurant though.”

“Only if I’m allowed to bring along a list of questions. Like, your former jobs.”

Lucas scorns, adding another pancake to the pile. “What’s next, my blood type?” He punctuates it with an obvious eye-roll, which he’s too busy making the most obnoxious possible to pay attention to his hand smacking the handle of the pan. It nearly knocks it from the stove, and he mumbles a few curses as he straightens it up on the fire.

Eliott tilts his head lightly. “Might come into question if you aren’t more careful.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so distracted if you weren’t so fucking distracting,” Lucas retorts.

Eliott hums, picking up his plate and his coffee cup before motioning to the living room. “My charm is a curse,” he whispers into Lucas’ ear on the way.

Another click of the tongue, followed by a squinty look. “Now who's getting big-headed?” 

“I never saw myself as a ten, you created this monster yourself,” Eliott points out, setting everything on Lucas’ coffee table before dragging it closer to the pull-out couch.

“And I'll live to regret it,” Lucas says from the other side of the thin plaster-board wall. A concert of noises salutes Lucas’ last pancake, and he shuts down the fire before bringing his plate and his coffee to the living-room. He drops himself in the spot next to Eliott, imperiously holding out his hand. “Nutella.”

Eliott obliges, unfazed to the last degree. At this point there’s not much that could possibly make him blink, when it comes to his boyfriend’s lack of manners. He watches Lucas busy himself with the chocolate spread in silence for a moment, his hand wrapped around his coffee mug. The last time they’ve been here, the last time he was sitting with Lucas on this couch, he’d almost fucked everything up beyond repair.

The mere thought of it makes his stomach clench a little.

“Lucas?” His boyfriend looks up, and Eliott’s heart makes a little flip as he leans forward. It’s stupid, but he has a small moment of hesitation. A split-second where their faces are so close he can make out Lucas’ eyelashes, before he presses a kiss onto his lips.

It’s not heated. There’s no tongue involved, no languid kiss, just a tender press of the lips. A reassurance, perhaps, or maybe a question asked already. When he pulls away, Lucas tilts his head to the side a little. “What was that for?”

“It’s just- you know.” Eliott ducks his face a little, feeling awkward all of a sudden. “Thanks for giving us a chance.” He should really learn not to give a shit. Luckily for him, he’s apparently now dating the one person on Earth he can definitely learn from in that department.

The aforementioned person snorts, but he’s grinning. “Careful. You’re still under the 24h return policy.” 

Eliott ‘awws’ with an understanding nod that makes Lucas laugh quietly. “And what can I do to make you keep me?”

His boyfriend brings a piece of pancake to his mouth, and chews a little on it as he pretends to give it a thought. “The most logical option would be to start with you taking me out on a date.” Then he has a casual shrug as he looks back to Eliott. “You know. To cross that off the list.”

“Let’s hope it’s a long list then,” he says with a grin.

It makes Lucas roll his eyes but it’s fond. Maybe he should do a list too. His eyes stumble on the piano keyboard pushed in a corner. “When are you going to play something for me?”, he asks casually.

Lucas doesn’t even look up from his pancake, only sparing him a snort. “You’ll have to earn it for that to happen.”

Eliott playfully pokes his arm. “Now you’re making me run the extra-mile for it. If I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you don’t look all that interested.”

Lucas looks up, unimpressed. “You can’t tease me for crushing and simultaneously act like I don’t give a fuck.”

“You sure about that?”, Eliott grins innocently, waggling his eyebrows as he leans forward. “You’re not the only annoying one in this relationship.”

Lucas pushes his face away and Eliott starts laughing. “Trust me, I’ve figured that out a long time ago.”

**LUNDI, 11:43**

**LUNDI, 18:04**

Strangely enough, climbing up four flights of stairs doesn’t look nearly half as bad as it usually does, but it probably has to do with the fact that eleven hours and forty-five minutes is quite enough, indeed, to build up expectation.

It’s not every day that he’s got a _fucking first date_.

Believe it or not but Eliott belongs to that very particular 1% of the population that thrives on first dates; he loves the excitement of learning more about the person he cares about, loves the idea of bringing them along into a place he knows and feels comfortable in, loves the expectation and the build-up — and too bad if it means he’s invariably disappointed, whenever things don’t work out.

The day has flown by at a snail’s pace, every single second stretching twice longer than usual, between endless periods and Lucas’ sulky teasing, and the most he’s done, he feels, was spending the vast majority of it waiting for time to pass by, infuriatingly slow. After a blissful Sunday spent in a big bubble setting him (them) apart from the rest of the world, he _was_ expecting Monday morning to hit differently, literally as soon as he let sleep take over the night before — but not quite as hard.

Now, as he makes his way upstairs, he’s literally vibrating with excitement and anticipation, sauntering his way to Lucas’ front door like he suddenly doesn’t have any problem running a marathon. They haven’t really given each other a particular time to meet, so he assumes dropping by to get a kiss and exchange a few words about the importance for Lucas to stop acting like a little shit when Eliott is at work can be in order.

(And in any case he still has to grab a shower and put on something that doesn’t smell and isn’t crispy with dried acrylic.)

(A kid has found nothing better to do than to splash him inadvertently with the paint tube he was trying to open.)

He doesn’t even have the time to make it to the doorstep when Lucas’ door cracks open.

“Hey,” Eliott says, but his smile falters a little as he takes in Lucas’ expression.

And it’s not exactly welcoming. Rather the opposite. Frankly, even for Lucas it’s a bit much, in the whiplash category, Eliott thinks incredulously. Not only doesn’t Lucas return his smile but instead of letting him in, it looks like he’s going to stand in the way.

“I texted you,” Lucas hisses accusingly in lieu of a greeting. “You never fucking answer?”

Before he can even do so, verbally this time, Eliott hears a loud howling sound coming from inside the flat. Voices, definitely. Barking laughter. All too familiar for Eliott not to feel like he’s being brought back to a couple of months ago, when those exact same sounds were just preventing him from catching a mental break even at home.

“I told you I turned off my phone,” Eliott says with a wince. He didn’t want to deal with whatever Lucas was apparently ready to send a couple of hours before, neither at school nor in the subway, and now it comes back biting him in the ass.

Lucas barely listens to him at all. “Whatever, I’m sorry but we have to cancel tonight.”

Eliott’s eyes widen a little. “What?”

_Why?_

“I know it sucks but I’ve got a friend emergency,” Lucas says, resting a hand on the doorframe.

“A friend emergency,” Eliott repeats. For friends he had stopped talking to for nearly two months, he almost adds. The thought in itself makes him feel bad, so he tries to push it down as far as possible.

“Yeah, Yann got dumped. I need to make sure he’s okay, you know.”

“Right. So does that m-”

He’s interrupted by a hand reaching for the door, above Lucas’ head, and pulling it open wider. Yann stands behind his boyfriend, looking much more relaxed and easy-going than the last time he saw him.

“Hey, Eliott, right?”, he says with an easy smile, nursing a beer in one hand. He doesn’t even bother acknowledging Lucas, whose head has snapped in his direction. “Sorry for last time, it was awkward. I’m Yann.”

Eliott feels the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a weird smile. “No hard feelings,” he replies politely with a nod. “I was just-”

“Leaving,” Lucas completes, with a voice serious enough to make Eliott’s shoulders slump.

_So much for the first date_. A quick glance at Lucas’ iron-melting eyes dissuades him from insisting, without even knowing _why_. What the fuck is that all about? Fucking Friendzoning Golden Medal, all the _fucking way_. Except that this time? This time he’s supposedly in a _relationship_ with Lucas. Supposedly. At least they were, last he checked.

“Yes,” Eliott says slowly, trying not to sound too bitter. “That.”

Yann’s eyes travel between them a couples of times. “So you’re really just gonna make him leave,” he says dryly, turning to Lucas. His best friend looks up to him, a flash of surprise passing through his eyes before a frown crumples his face. Yann lets out a ‘tss’ and shakes his head. “I thought we were past that point in our friendship, Lu’.”

“What?”, Eliott and Lucas say with one voice, Lucas’ sounding a lot harsher but just as incredulous.

Yann heaves a sigh and pushes the door open in its entirety. The other two members of Lucas’ friend group are sitting on the couch; Eliott recognizes them vaguely from the Instagram publications Lucas has scattered on his account, but he’s not sure he could remember their names, much less pick them in a crowd.

“Guys,” Yann calls out, snapping his fingers, and the two lean to the side, sneaking a glance from behind the plaster-board wall. Yann gestures vaguely with his hand. “Arthur, Baz, meet Lucas’ new boo.”

_Oh_. Okay. So they’re doing this. Eliott’s a little too taken aback to react, but not Lucas.

“Are you fucking serious?”, he blurts out, eyes stabbing his best friend.

The blond guy with the glasses, Arthur, frowns. “Wait what?”

“Okay when the fuck did that happen?”, the other one (Baz, predictably) says at the same time.

Yann huffs a little and shakes his head with a casual shrug as he steps inside the flat. “See, that’s why I’m in charge, I’m the only one who pays attention to shit.”

Arthur snickers. “You’re not in charge of anything, bro. Your mom still washes your underwear.”

“I have a washing machine emergency,” Yann retorts snappily.

“Bro I hate to break it to you but six months isn’t an emergency anymore, it’s a way of life.”

Lucas still hasn’t budged from the entrance, aside from turning over on the spot and grumpily folding his arms on his chest. “Can we just forget about that fucking washing machine for five seconds?”, he snaps, tapping his foot on the floor like a cartoon character. “Where the hell does that come from?”

Yann shoos Arthur away to get his spot back on the couch, then turns to Lucas with a blank look on his face that screams ‘dad friend’. “Are you saying I got it wrong?”, he says with a pointed eyebrow raise.

Lucas scoffs. “I- we-” Both times his voice trails off, and eventually he scoots around with a snippy look towards Eliott. “Can’t you fucking help?”

Eliott sneers. “Oh no I’m just watching,” he says innocently. “You’re doing so great, I’d hate to ruin everything.”

The look of irritation on Lucas’ face is priceless, and for a split-second Eliott wonders if he should feel like that. If, now that they’re supposedly together, he should still feel this visceral need to prod Lucas until he snaps. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t he be feeling like he wants to fucking slay dragons just for Lucas’ beautiful eyes?

Well maybe it would be easier if Lucas hadn’t blatantly friendzoned him in front of his friends, to be fair.

Baz seems to take pity on the strange charade Lucas is trying to put up for them. “For real Lucas, you’re just gonna have him stand outside?”, he says, voice laced with disapproval. It makes the situation all the more stupid and even more uncomfortable for Eliott, if that’s even possible.

“Jesus, can you all stop being dramatic? He’s not barefoot in the fucking snow!”, Lucas retorts coolly. And after a few more seconds, in the course of which he manages to let out the longest, breathiest, most annoyed sigh Eliott has ever heard, he reluctantly pulls himself away from the doorway. “This is why I can’t have nice things.”

That’s so very nicely offered that Eliott is conflicted for another moment, before he finally steps in. Apparently his entrance has sparked a lot more interest than whatever thing that was they were watching before he entered, because as soon as Lucas closes the door, all eyes are on him — them.

“So,” Arthur says, gesturing between the two of them, “allow me to ask again, when did that happen?”

“He’s the one who babysat for us,” Yann replies casually, before taking a sip from his beer.

Baz snorts. “I’m trying not to make jokes because that’s kind of gross but-”

“Yeah,” Lucas grits, voice heavy with unspoken threats, “you really shouldn’t.”

Arthur wrinkles his nose in disgust, throwing a glance to his friend. “Bro that’s gross.”

“You don’t even know what I was about to say!”

Yann widens his eyes comically, shaking his head. “Oh trust me we do.”

Baz, who’s squeezed between Arthur and the wall, opts to leave the couch to get more space on the floor — and changes the subject. “So you get dumped by Lucas’ ex and somehow _Lucas_ is the one who gets karma’s reward?”, he snorts, folding his legs under the coffee-table.

Arthur nudges him in the shoulder with his knee.

_Lucas’ ex?_

Eliott turns to the side, the question on the tip of his tongue, but Lucas has already vanished, leaving him to stare at the void. For someone so loud, it’s unexpected. He leaves the boys to their bickering, amidst Baz’s various protests, and steps in the small kitchen. His boyfriend is busy rummaging through a cupboard, standing on his tiptoes to reach farther.

“Hey,” Eliott says again, quietly this time. He feels awkward beyond words, and Lucas’ head snaps to the side as he freezes on the spot. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t see your texts.”

“Well at least you would have known what you were walking into,” Lucas says.

“It doesn’t seem so bad to me,” Eliott observes carefully, and Lucas gives him a rogue look that makes something crawl under his skin.

Okay, no. He _knows_ he just got in a relationship with the most annoying human being on earth — he knows that. And if he’s completely honest, it wouldn’t be fair to pretend otherwise because even if he hadn’t picked up on that himself, even if he was dumb enough not to notice that Lucas has an attitude problem on _all accounts,_ well Lucas himself was kind enough to put it in perspective for him.

But that? Even by Lucas’ standards this is a bit much — and by a bit, he means a _fucking lot_.

“I can go, if that’s what you want,” he lets out, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “I didn’t mean to intrude, I just thought we were going out tonight.”

“And I told you I can’t,” Lucas replies. His voice sounds stiffy as he insists ever so slightly on the last word. “The guys need me.”

The first thing Eliott thinks is that frankly, for someone who just got dumped, Yann seems okay, which immediately makes him feel a little bit worse about himself. He doesn’t even know the guy, who is he to fucking judge? Lucas nudges the cupboard door closed, and Eliott stands there, wallowing in his own bitterness and self-depreciation.

“Did I do something wrong?”, he asks, leaning against the kitchen table.

Lucas turns around. “Did _you_ dump Yann?” He immediately adds, before Eliott can even scoff at the dumb question: “Then you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Well why do I feel like you’re avoiding me then?”, Eliott insists. “And before you say it’s not true, I’ll have you know that being friendzoned twice in a row isn’t exactly my idea of a perfect first date.”

“Sorry if I’m not meeting up your standards,” Lucas snaps sarcastically. “I’m truly, truly _sorry_.”

“Lucas it’s not about standards,” Eliott protests, earnest. “At _all_. My standards are _you_. I just want to spend time with you and yes, okay, maybe I’m upset because I miss being with you and now I don’t understand why you’re acting like I did something bad.”

Lucas turns his face away. “I just-,” he says, but his voice trails off.

“What?”

He gives a small wave. “Nothing. I’m sorry that stupid date was my idea and I should have shut my goddamn trap.” And with that he resolutely turns towards the sink and opens the tap to wash his hands. Which seems a _lot_ like he’s trying to buy some time.

“Is this because of the date?” Lucas doesn’t answer at first, so Eliott steps closer, and after a moment he simply shuts down the tap himself. “Look at me.”

Lucas spares him a glance before quickly looking away. “It wasn’t like that with Valentin,” he mutters. Eliott hands him the dishcloth and he starts wiping his hands. “Or like, anyone else, except maybe for Kevin but- even with him everything felt tough and exhilarating at the same time because everything was just _new_. But with you it’s not. And I know eventually I’ll mess it up and I let _you_ talk me into trying this and now-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Eliott interrupts. “This is just a first date. Okay? That’s all it is. It’s not our- I mean Lucas, come on, it’s not our relationship.” Lucas looks up and Eliott goes for a smile. “The other day when we went to Mika’s bar. That’s the kind of things I like to do with someone I’m taking on a date. Just talking. Drinking, eating. Why would it be weird?”

“The date isn’t weird, I _am_ ,” Lucas snaps stubbornly. “I thought it’d be fine with you because I know you but turns out it’s not. I don’t know how to play it cool, I feel like every single thing I’ll do, the moment I’ll start to let go, you’ll realize how much you don’t like what you’re seeing.”

“Are you a vampire?” Lucas gives him a look, and despite himself Eliott hears himself chuckle a bit, if only nervously. “Unless you’re a goddamn vampire, I don’t think it’s going to be a problem. I’m not saying I know you inside out because that’s not true, but what I’ve seen so far- I love it. And if you feel better just hanging out with your friends instead of dressing up and hitting a fancy-ass restaurant- Well let’s do that.”

Lucas lets out a sigh and turns around, leaning back against the sink. “I wanted you to meet them,” he says, folding his arms stubbornly. “Really. I just… Alright. Maybe I just wanted for it to be our thing a little longer. Maybe I wanted to check the first date off the list before you met them.”

“Well it’s still our thing,” he says, leaning closer. “It’s even more our thing because they’re a part of the Lallemant package as far as I know.” Lucas hums unconvincingly in response, and Eliott holds out a hand for him to take. “As for the date… Well I guess we traditionally have one before the sex part.”

Lucas snorts, pulling him closer. “Tradition sucks.”

“Exactly. My point,” Eliott says, trying to make eye-contact with him. “Tradition sucks and if we want to spend an evening with your friends before we go on a first date, well that’s gonna be our thing.”

“Too bad cause I’m much more interested in the sex part,” Lucas deadpans, sliding his arms around Eliott’s waist.

“That I’d never imagine.”

He brushes his nose against Lucas’, and lets out a quiet chuckle before gently easing into a kiss, Lucas’ lips faintly tasting like beer as he pulls him closer still. His hands find Lucas’ face, cupping it softly as Lucas’ tongue slides inside his mouth.

A small knock makes them break apart, and Eliott feels a little like he’s been caught red-handed making out with his boyfriend in-between two study sessions for the BAC in his parents’ kitchen. Baz is standing there, a hand over his eyes.

“Are you guys decent?”, he asks, ever so loud.

Lucas rolls his eyes pointedly with a loud sigh.

“Yeah, we are,” Eliott says, laughing quietly.

Baz peers between his fingers before dropping his hand. “We’re gonna order pizza. You guys want anything in particular? Any allergies I should know about?”, he inquires, turning to Eliott.

Lucas scoffs. “You’re ordering pizza, not babysitting him!”

“I’m good, take anything you guys feel like,” he tells Baz, who nods with a ‘gotcha’ before joining his friends in the living room. Eliott gives Lucas a playful nip on his jawline to draw his attention back on him. “I’ll change before dinner.”

He pecks him on the lips a couple of times. “Yeah, I was wondering what was that all about, actually,” Lucas says, breaking apart to let his hands travel down Eliott’s shirt, until he can tug at the yellow-stained fabric.

Eliott shakes his head knowingly. “Clumsy kid and a paint tube. Deadly combo. Probably karma’s way of teaching me a lesson for being on my phone during my work hours.”

Lucas hums, pulling him in for one more kiss before they separate. In the living room the boys have started bickering about something, and he’s glad they haven’t been sitting in plain silence the whole time because that would have been one awkward situation. “Eliott,” Lucas calls out, only for him to hear, and Eliott scoots around. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”

Eliott’s heart skips a little beat as the words sink in.

_Thank you_.

He wants to make a big deal out of it, so _bad_ , but something in Lucas’ eyes makes him rethink that. They’re oddly soft, no trace of the usual fire in them, and it should be a relief of sorts probably, after disarming the grenade of their very first fight in a way that has hopefully spared them both — but something in Eliott tells him it’s precisely not something he should make a big deal about.

“Are you… Are you okay?”, he says, and perhaps his chuckle sounds weird, but he can’t care less. “Are you alright? Do you need to sit down?”

A smirk shows up on Lucas’ face, and he scoffs. “Fuck _off_.”

Yet he doesn’t sound upset in the slightest — rather the opposite. Eliott steps back closer, smiling bright as he pulls him in for another kiss. In the background, they can hear Arthur and Yann arguing over the result of some game they are watching on TV. “Maybe I can squeeze a shower in before the pizza arrives,” Eliott whispers in-between two kisses. 

“Oh yeah?”, Lucas says, cocking an eyebrow, and the way he looks at him makes a shiver run up Eliott’s spine. His hands get clingier as he circles Lucas’ shoulders with his arms. “Maybe I can join you then. Save some water and the environment. Win-win.”

“Win-win,” Eliott nods approvingly, giving Lucas one last kiss before reaching for his hand. They pad over to the front door without a look back, laughing quietly to themselves.

The last thing they hear in the background before the door shuts itself behind them is someone letting out a groan, and then an annoyed: “They’re gonna bang, no fucking way I’m not staying here.”

**JEUDI, 21:44**

****


	9. Epilogue: Two Months Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't think i would post tonight but i felt the need to cheer myself up with a few social media creations so i thought, hell why not? 🤷🏻  
> i hope you had as much fun as i did writing this fic because it was truly a blast and i've received so many nice feedbacks and every single one means the world to me 🥺🥰💞 thank you so much for putting up with Lucas' terrible behavior, i promise Eliott will try his best to rub off on him in the future 👀😘💖 i've already started writing the next fic so i hope i'll see you there really soon! 🙏🏻

**MARDI, 19:08**

**JEUDI, 12:41**

> Noise complaints
> 
> From: bernard.morin@immogroupe.fr
> 
> To: lucaslmnt@hotmail.fr
> 
> Today, 12:41
> 
> Mr. Lallemant,
> 
> I’ve received quite a few noise complaints across the past few weeks from several residents of your building, mostly regarding some personal activities. While I’m absolutely delighted to hear that your injury is apparently not having long-lasting consequences on your life and your motor skills, I’d be very grateful if you could take into consideration these remarks in order for every resident of this building to live peacefully.
> 
> Respectfully,
> 
> Bernard MORIN

**SAMEDI, 16:19**

“So,” Idriss says casually, “how does that feel, being on your own again? Forgot how it felt like?”

“Idriss,” Sali calls out disapprovingly from her spot on the Bakhellals’ outside table.

Eliott scoffs, barely sparing a blink at Idriss’ lame attempt to distract him. “It wasn’t funny the first time, and it still stinks.”

With the summer vacations just around the corner for everybody, they’ve decided to spend their last afternoon together in Paris, taking advantage that Idriss and Imane’s parents are abroad to borrow their backyard. At the crack of dawn tomorrow, Idriss and Sali will grab a train for two weeks in the hinterland of Nice, and in just about ten days, Sofiane and Imane will fly out of the country to visit his relatives in Morocco. And if things go well, hopefully he should be out of town by the first week of August to join his sister in Spain — at this point he’s sure she’s counting the days.

He makes the ball hit the ground a couple of times, to try and buy some time, but it’s enough for Idriss to surge forward and steal the ball easily. “ _You_ still stink,” Idriss grins insolently, and before Eliott even has the time to catch up, he has already jumped and scored, the ball falling through the netless hoop after circling the rim a few times.

The backyard echoes with Idriss and Sofiane’s victorious shouts and Imane and Eliott’s groans, and she quickly catches the ball after a rebound against the wall. “Eliott, more basketball, less chit-chat.”

“He’s doing that on purpose!”, he complains, while Idriss makes a mission to be on his sister’s toes to prevent her from scoring.

“Like you need me to suck at playing ball,” he snickers, throwing a look behind his shoulder.

Ironically it’s the split-second Imane needed to sidestep her annoying big brother; she hops to the side, stretching her arms as the ball cuts through the air to land right in the middle of the hoop. She lets out a victorious squeal, and jumps into Sofiane’s arms amidst Idriss’ protests.

“Remind me again why we didn’t let them be in the same team again?”, Eliott sighs, while Sofiane makes his girlfriend spin.

“For that exact reason I believe,” Idriss groans. “Hey! When you two are done sucking faces-”

Sali barks a laugh from her spot, adjusting her sunglasses on her nose. “Don’t be petty because I didn’t want to play, babe.”

“But it would have been fun,” her boyfriend complains, gesturing as he talks. “Instead I have _Sofiane_ in my team.”

“Yeah, about that,” Sofiane says, putting Imane back down, “how come you didn’t listen to me when I said _I don’t wanna play_?”

Idriss scoffs. “Oh c’mon, you like playing ball.”

“Yeah but it’s too damn hot for that,” Sofiane waves. He wrinkles his nose as he shakes his damp tee-shirt. “I’m taking a break.”

Eliott immediately jumps on the occasion to follow suit, and Sali nudges the plastic chair she was resting her feet on in his direction. He’s left his phone on the table a while ago, when they started messing around with the ball, and now it’s burning under his fingers as he unlocks it to check his texts.

“He should arrive soon, right?”, Idriss asks, dropping himself into a seat nearby.

Eliott squints at the screen. “Yeah, his shift ended at 15h30. But don’t worry, I’ll tell my boyfriend you miss him.”

“You bet I do,” his best friend scoffs. “I don’t wanna know what you guys have been up to but I’ve been waiting for my revenge on FIFA for fucking ever.”

Maybe introducing Lucas to Idriss was a mistake, after all. It’d have definitely made for quieter evenings, that’s for sure. Eliott scrunches up his nose, shielding his phone screen from the sun to discard a couple of notifications. “He’s wound-up tight these days. Job’s a pain and meeting my parents is stressing the shit out of him.”

So much for the sexy, romantic scenario, where Lucas would be kept away from playing online games because for some reason they would be far too caught up into each other, looking into each other’s eyes and making passionate love until the early hours of the morning.

“Bah. It’s gonna be fine, right?”

“Well, yeah, I hope so.”

Eliott’s mom has invited them over for lunch tomorrow, and he’s starting to get a little nervous too now that there’s less than 24h to go. Which is dumb, right? _Of course_ it’s gonna be okay. They seemed excited when he broke them the news. And he knows they’re polite enough at the very least to dodge any kind of conflict, should anything bad happen. Which… is absolutely not Lucas’ case.

Okay.

Alright. Look.

He’s a man in love. He really is. But maybe Lucas’ terrible attitude might be a tiny source of stress for him at the moment. Turns out going back to work has requested a little bit of patience, diplomacy and flexibility, courtesy of another manager filling in for him in the meantime, and let’s just say that Lucas isn’t good at any of these things, to put it mildly. There’s been a lot of ranting and rambling lately, and since his boyfriend gets worked-up whenever someone brings up his job as of late, he’s crossing his fingers that it doesn’t happen tomorrow as well.

Next to him, Sali heaves a small sigh. “That’s so fucked up. We stress so much, and, like, 8 times out of 10 I feel like it’s not even worth the anxiety.”

“Look at me, I didn’t even break a sweat and it went just fine,” Idriss grins broadly.

“Yeah. Sure,” Sali says after a second, then she looks away, busying herself with her phone.

It takes Idriss aback. “What to do you mean? Your parents love me.”

“Yeah, they do now,” she says slowly, then she pats her boyfriend’s arm. “Just that… you know. You grew on them.”

Eliott starts laughing the moment Idriss’ face falls in shocked disbelief, and he’s immediately joined by Sofiane and Imane. It’s old news that Idriss isn’t exactly a parents’ instant favorite, with his easy-going smile and his nonchalant demeanor — he’s always had that bit of a smooth fucker vibe, even when they were in high school. At this point it’s just part of Idriss’ charm, and eventually people almost always like him, but he’s just the only one who doesn’t seem to understand the concept of adjustment period.

His best friend is busy making a case when Eliott hears the metallic sound of the Bakhellals’ gate shutting itself, and his eyes snap to the side to see Lucas rounding the corner of the house. He’s gone back home to change into a tee-shirt and shorts, but the grumpy look on his face seems to speak volumes about his mood, as usual.

“There he is,” Sofiane grins as a salute.

“Look at that smile on his face,” Imane coos mockingly, and Lucas flips her off easily.

Eliott doesn’t really bother getting worried about it. For some reason Imane and Lucas seem to have hit it off right away in the tough love department — she just laughs in return.

“Anybody free tonight?”, he asks around, as he leans forward to kiss her hello, then gives Sofiane some twisted version of a fist bump.

Idriss perks up with a smirk. “Why, you got any plans?”

Eliott scoffs, reclining into his seat. “I’m not falling for that one again.”

“Depends,” Lucas replies, ignoring him as he goes on to greet Sali then Idriss. “I need a shovel and someone to help me clean a murder. Interested?”

Idriss barks a laugh and Lucas finally slides next to him, perching himself on a corner of the table.

“And this is why I’m always automatically assuming something bad happened,” Eliott says, leaning into Lucas’ side. He circles Lucas’ back with an arm, craning his face to look up. “At this point I’m afraid to ask what you did.”

Lucas ponders his answers, then gives a small shrug. “Nothing yet,” he replies slowly, then he leans down and lowers his voice only for Eliott to hear: “As long as you get naked the minute we get home and you let me take it out on you, we’re good.”

Eliott snorts. “That bad?”

Lucas’ only answer is a groan. He pecks him on the lips, then straightens up. “I need to blow off some steam or I’m gonna burst,” he says louder, and he hops down the table to grab the basketball at Idriss’ feet. “Anybody in?”

Despite his best efforts, he ends up dragged into yet another pitiful attempt at limb coordination. It’s literally 30°C, it’s the middle of July, and it’s a chance he really likes Lucas because otherwise he might have found the first excuse he could possibly come up with to dodge that one — but no. He has to be the goddamn smitten partner kind, or something like that. Imane and Lucas team up, which leaves Idriss and Eliott on the same side. Sofiane, that traitor, is grinning at him from his spot at the garden table, while he’s trying his best to be useful.

His only advantage so far is that he’s a head taller than Lucas. Which doesn’t seem to be Lucas’ favorite thing at the moment, to say the least. “Dating a tall guy was a mistake,” he says snappily, trying his best to sidestep him to be able to shoot.

Eliott smirks. “I thought you liked that.”

“Oh trust me, I like a lot of the parameters,” Lucas scoffs. “Just not this one.”

He twists around, making the ball dribble once or twice on the ground, and Eliott cages him with his arms. “Don’t be a sore loser, that’s not hot,” he taunts as Lucas tries to get away from him.

With a hiss of protest, he shoots the ball for Imane to catch. “You don’t seem to have a problem with that when I’m losing a game and you help me cope with it,” Lucas says, hands falling onto his hips. He looks him right in the eye, cocking an eyebrow definitely.

One lingering look at Lucas’ flushed cheeks, at his hair sticking to his temples, at the drop of sweat running down his neck, at the tee-shirt clinging to his chest, and Eliott’s mind goes blank, thrown into the gutter. He fucking _hates_ -

“Eliott!”, Idriss calls out loudly.

_Bam._

Next thing he knows he’s on the floor, ears ringing after a loud thud exploded in his eardrums, and he feels like he can’t breathe as he curls onto his side. _Holy fucking shit_. The basketball is now casually rolling on the floor, with apparently no regard for Eliott, or for the fact that his whole face is now one giant stabbing pain.

“Eliott, hey,” Lucas calls out, crouching down next to him. “You okay?”

He lets out a plaintive noise. “Fucking hell Idriss,” he cries out, his hand reaching for his face.

Idriss pops up next to him, mirroring Lucas’ position on his other side. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Fuck, it’s bleeding,” Lucas mutters, his hand carefully resting on Eliott’s cheek.

Eliott’s brain is one never-ending string of curses as he sits up carefully, blinking hard. His hand reaches up for his face, and it takes him an extra second for what Lucas just said to sink in — not before his fingers get all smudged with blood.

“Here, wipe it,” Sali says, handing over paper towels.

Lucas grabs one or two and starts wiping the blood running down his upper lip, but Eliott immediately recoils with a yelp. “Fuck no, don’t touch- _don’t_ -,” his hand flies to his face, which, predictably, only results in more pain. “Holy fuck it hurts.”

“Must be broken,” Imane observes.

“Hey, I know it hurts but you’ll have to do something about the blood,” Lucas says, handing him the crumpled paper towels.

“Fuck no, I can’t it hurts too much.”

“Then put your head back at least,” Sofiane chimes in, and Lucas tilts his chin back before Eliott can even decide to do it by himself.

The simple gesture makes everything spin. Oh God he’s going to be sick. He feels his blood pumping everywhere in his face, like his heart suddenly decided to join his brain for a cozy afternoon, and it fucking _burns_.

“Bro I’m so, _so_ sorry,” Idriss says, looking absolutely dejected.

Eliott lets out a groan. “It’s fine, I just-” He starts coughing and turns to the side just in time to spit out some blood.

“I’ll check if I can get some ice,” Sali says, standing up to make her way inside the house, “try to make the bleeding stop.”

Lucas grabs a few more paper towels and wipes his chin, then his mouth, and, finally, with the utmost care, his upper lip — which is as close as he can get right now. “Where does it hurt?”

It takes a moment for Eliott to process. It’s not helping that the sun is currently making his eyes melt. Eventually he points at the bridge of his nose.

Lucas winces, wiping off some more blood. “Yeah, sounds a lot like a fracture to me. We need to get you to the ER.”

Idriss bolts up. “I’ll drive you guys,” he says hastily before he starts running back to the house, probably to get his keys.

Sali returns with a washcloth filled with ice-cubes that she carefully hands him, and Eliott cries out in pain when he so much as brings it close to the injured area. _Nope_. Not gonna happen. Impossible.

“Fuck, what am I supposed to tell your parents now,” Lucas groans, rubbing his back as Eliott tries yet again to apply some ice. “‘Oh hey, I’m a fucking amazing boyfriend, and most of the time he doesn’t come back home with broken bones I swear!’”

“Lu it’s not your fault,” Eliott mumbles, voice strained as he grits his teeth. He motions to stand up and Lucas helps him steady himself onto his feet. “They won’t hate you for that.”

“I don’t believe you,” his boyfriend scorns stubbornly.

“Well, you should because that’s all I got right now,” he groans.

Idriss comes back with his wallet and his car-keys, and gestures for them to follow him to the gate. They walk slowly, his face still burning as the blood keeps pumping, but his nose has stopped bleeding for the most part.

“What do you need me to do?”, Lucas asks while he tries once more to press the ice to his face. “Kiss it better?”

He stifles a pained moan. “Lucas, I love you. I fucking do,” he says laboriously, voice muffled, “but if you come anywhere near me right now-”

Lucas turns to the side. “You love me,” he repeats bluntly.

 _Jesus fucking Christ_. Like it’s even a fucking _surprise_.

Okay maybe they’ve never said that. Maybe they’ve never used those exact words, because Lucas is a stubborn little shit, because he keeps making Eliott want to strangle him whenever he brings up his stupid tough love theory, because Eliott has stupidly established five different scenarios for those exact same words to come up and none of those ever included a goddamn broken bone.

But _fuck_. He could have at least the decency not to sound so surprised.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but it makes the pain return in all its fucking glory and he deflates with a hiss of pain. “Lucas,” he pants, trying his best to shoot him a glare, “shut the fuck up, or I swear to God, I’ll tell everyone you hold hands when you come.”

_Try acting like a tough dog after that._

“Fine, whatever,” Lucas shrugs, pulling the door of the car open for Eliott. He slides into the passenger’s seat with as much dignity as possible, and Lucas groans, slamming the door shut. “I love you too, asshole.”

**DIMANCHE, 12:39**


	10. Two years and a half down the road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! so i've received an ask on tumblr about a snippet of their lives together and i kinda missed them so, i indulged myself with a little Lucas POV. 🥰💖 i hope you'll like it!

**JEUDI, 18:21**

It's late, when Lucas finds himself strolling down the hall of (probably) one of the thousand Voltaire schools in France. There’s a better way to finish a work-day than to drag himself three _arrondisements_ away, in the cold, winter night, with the feeling of smelling like a giant French fry to complete the picture, but it’s not like he has another way to deal with this situation. 

He stops at the last classroom on the left, at the far end of the vomit-green colored hall, peeking through the door hanging wide-open before giving it a knock. Eliott looks up from behind his teacher desk, where he’s busy shutting down the computer with one hand and putting the cap on a bottle of bright blue acrylic paint with the other.

“What are you doing here?”, he asks in a mumble, after a second.

Lucas leans into the doorframe and gives a shrug. “Funny story,” he says in a deadpan, because it’s not even funny, if he wasn’t there for a very specific reason he’d have thrown a fit, “I didn’t even have to say anything for them to let me in. So either they think I’m old enough to be a parent, so fuck them, or they think I’m scrawny enough to be a 13-year-old, so double fuck them.”

People need to quit acting like size is everything. Or to pretend that it’s just being ‘vertically challenged’. Fuck that, he’s _not_ challenged. He challenges the world, not the other way around.

Eliott doesn’t seem to be the least impressed by the trials of this world — he’s tall anyway, he doesn’t get it. Such a goddamn beautiful fucker. A goddamn beautiful fucker who won’t give him the time of the day, apparently. He’s still not looking up from his new hobby, stacking paint brushes and paint rollers in a metallic bucket, which is rude when your boyfriend came all the way to your workplace _to talk._

“Nice shirt,” he says after a moment. It’s not even true. It’s a horrible shirt. It’s a black button-down and it doesn’t have any defined shape, and it hangs weirdly on Eliott’s frame, loose around the arms and in the curve of his back. Mostly, it’s horrible because he knows it’s not one of Eliott’s.

Eliott strides to the back of the classroom and shrugs open one of the three water taps aligned against the wall. “It’s one of Idriss’,” he says laconically, and he grabs a yellow sponge to scrub the bottom of the sink, because they live in a world where people are paid to clean entire schools but god forbid you ask them to go a little harder in the one classroom where people use actual paint.

(Eliott’s words, not his.)

Lucas steps in, because he’s not gonna wait for _ever_ to be invited, and he leans back against Eliott’s desk. “So that’s where you were.”

He _hates_ the way his voice sounds, the boring chit-chat he’s forced to go through, only to be brushed off by a cold stare from his far too tall, far too good-looking, far too grumpy boyfriend. It’s his job to be grumpy. That’s the part he plays in this relationship. He gets pissy at the world and Eliott soothes him to prevent him from bursting and do something ‘stupid’, like lighting some building on fire or hit the new cashier square in the face — it worked well for two years and a half, and now suddenly he’s here. Falling down on his knees and not even to suck him off. _Bleh_. Sad.

Eliott doesn’t reply anything. He just keeps scrubbing like it’s the most important thing at hand, and not the fact that he’s standing _here_. Lucas watches as he opens the tap to let some water run for a while, until he just can’t take it anymore. “Eliott, for fuck’s sake, I’m trying, just do the same.”

It’s like he’s been waiting for this the whole time. As soon as the words flow out of Lucas’ mouth, Eliott’s head snaps up, and he snappily throws the sponge in the sink, shutting down the matter just as harshly. “Fine. You want to talk? Let’s talk,” he says, sharp as a kitchen knife. His voice sounds ridiculously loud in the empty classroom. “I’m fucking tired. I’m tired of you acting like the rest of the world can suck it, no matter what you do or the shit you say.”

“I know I messed up, okay? But if _you_ hadn’t slammed the door on me, if _you_ hadn’t slept over at Idriss’-”

Eliott lets out a dry snort, and he moves back over to the front of the classroom, describing a large curve to ostensibly avoid Lucas’ direct vicinity. “Be grateful I did,” he retorts bitterly, reaching behind the desk to grab a handcloth and wipe his hands, “because I wanted to slam you against the wall.”

“Kinky,” Lucas snickers despite his best efforts, and Eliott glares at him in response.

He crumples the handcloth in a ball and throws it somewhere behind the desk.

_Okay, bad strategy, got it._

“Eliott,” he calls out, but his boyfriend is already storming in the storage room without a look back. Fucking hell how many kilometers does he do in one fucking day? “ _Eliott_.”

The only answer he gets is Eliott stubbornly shoving stuff in metal shelving units on the other side of the wall, like it’s helping anything. With a frustrated sigh he pushes himself off the desk and walks over to the storage room, slamming the door shut behind himself. “I’m trying to apologize, you _can’t_ keep ignoring me.”

Okay maybe following him here was a bad idea. It’s dark and cramped, not much larger than an elevator, and it stinks of at least five different bad smells. Not to mention that the remnants of years and years of artistic assignments are filling the shelving units in a creepy wall of horrors. Seriously, he can see a plastic bag full of Barbie heads just above Eliott’s shoulder.

“Why? You’re so good at ignoring people’s feelings,” his boyfriend snaps, and this time his voice sounds muffled, like the words are swallowed by the walls, “you should get that better than anyone else.”

Lucas slumps back against the closed door, folding his arms on his chest. “Now who’s being a brat?”

“You! Always!”

“That’s the fucking problem!” And okay, maybe he’s yelling too. “I’m trying not to! I’m fucking trying, and yeah, sometimes _I fucking snap_.”

Eliott looks like he wants to kill him, which, you know, it’s kind of fitting when you think about it because Lucas kind of wants to die too. “You compared my mental illness to your fucking, dumb video game marathon, Lucas,” he grits out. “This isn’t just being childish, this is fucked up on so many levels I can’t begin to count them all.”

Okay first of all it didn’t happen exactly _like that_.

He was busy playing Fallout 4 in his corner, sometimes making a comment or maybe letting out a noise or two, when Eliott had snapped. It went fast after that, kind of spiraling in fast motion. It wasn’t Lucas’ fault if Eliott had been pissy for a while, slamming cupboards shut and giving him looks and stuff, so naturally it came to a head like that. Eliott complained that he was tired and that he had a headache and that he was busy and, _naturally_ , Lucas isn’t the type to just stand by and be told off, so he had replied that when Eliott got invested in stuff, loud, annoying stuff that _also_ kept him up at night he didn’t-

Oh. Maybe it did happen like that. Crap.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?”, he sighs heavily. “Poor choice of words, poor comparison, poor every fucking thing.”

_Now let’s move on_ , he almost says, but he doesn’t.

“Well I’ve had enough,” Eliott says briskly. “You know how often I’m biting my tongue when you act like a jerk? No, you have no idea, because you don’t give a fuck about anything.”

“What happened to the part where you liked that about me?” Lucas counters.

“I’m your boyfriend, Lucas, your _boyfriend_!” Eliott yells. That’s a new development. He’s never really heard Eliott yell, at least not so many times in a 24h span of time. His boyfriend is the cold-anger, silent-treatment, you’ll-regret-it-before-I-do type of person. Not sure he likes it. “I shouldn’t be doing damage control all the time, I shouldn’t be keeping you in line _all the time_ , you should be able to do that by yourself!”

He feels himself flinch a little, and he fucking hates it. Plus, that fucking storage room is giving him nausea. Eliott’s eyes look so dark in that creepy place and he feels like the Barbie heads are laughing at him. “I’m sorry,” he says.

It looks like Eliott is squaring his shoulders, in his too-big-shirt that definitely doesn’t fit him. Unless he gets a growth spurt and pops a few more muscles before the end of the day. “We’ve been doing that for more than two years,” Eliott throws, before he turns his back on him obstinately. He starts rummaging through the shelves, and it’s obviously because he’s trying to find something to do because clearly he doesn’t, _doesn’t_ need to touch that horrendous mosaic horse head at the moment. “Sorry doesn’t quite cut it anymore.”

“So what? You want to me propose to make it better?”, Lucas huffs, acid. “Eliott Demaury, will you marry me?”

Eliott spins around. He looks furious, but also furiously good. Lucas hates it. No one should look that angry. Especially not his boyfriend. “Jesus fucking Christ, you really don’t get it.”

“I do!”, he exclaims. “And if you were training that dumb memory of yours every once in a while, you’d remember that I’ve _always been_ self-aware, and I warned you, _with words_ , that being with me would be difficult.”

_It’s gonna be a fucking mess_. He should have printed a shirt. A fucking poster, for Eliott to put it on his wall.

“So it’s supposed to make up for the bad attitude? Sometimes it’s like you’re not even trying to do better.”

It hurts. Kind of. He knows he should both feel bad and not feel bad. He should feel bad about Eliott being mad at him, but he shouldn’t feel bad about being called out. It’s a tough balance to maintain, and turns out he’s shit at doing that.

“Arthur said I was emotionally immature,” he says after a moment of silence.

Just like that. He was with the boys the other day, and they were talking about stuff, life, nothing big and nothing bad, and then he went to the bathroom, and when he came back, he was the hot topic. He was the one on the menu. Arthur was talking at that moment, with his goddamn therapist voice that made Lucas want to stuff a pillow in his face. Y _eah but with Lulu it’s different, he’s emotionally immature_. And then, like it wasn’t enough, he added: _You know, with his parents and stuff. I’m not surprised_.

It’s shit enough to hear people pity you. It’s even worse when it comes from your friends. It’s by far the shittiest when it comes to your therapist of high school friend. He’s never considered himself to be broken, and now he’s finding not only that he is, but that he probably needs fixing too.

“You think so too?”, he asks, when Eliott doesn’t say anything.

Eliott seems to ponder his answer. At least he’s not yelling anymore, but Lucas is not sure he likes it better. If he ponders, it means there’s an ugly truth he has to find words for. “I think you’re not always being the bigger man. And I think you often act without thinking stuff through. And that you got weirdly obsessed with video games since we got together and you should definitely get that under control,” he says, slowly, carefully. Everything Lucas wasn’t last night. “But it doesn’t make you clinically immature. It just makes you the most annoying boyfriend in Paris.” He wipes his dust-covered hand on his dark jeans. “Seriously we need to get out or they’ll lock the doors and put the alarms for the night and I’m not explaining to the Principal and the CPE why I got locked up in the backroom with my boyfriend.”

Lucas huffs. “You don’t like a little challenge. So boring,” he lets out, words tumbling down easily, too easily.

Eliott rolls his eyes and motions to push him away from the door; Lucas lets him. The light pours in the dusty, creepy, cramped storage room, pale and cold and artificial, and he follows Eliott out into the classroom, gladly leaving the freaky Barbie heads behind without a look back. For a moment it gets quiet between them, while Eliott busies himself with some more tidying.

“I don’t want you to just deal with me,” Lucas admits.

Eliott doesn’t look up, shoving pencils of all calibers in a pen holder. “Well good, because neither do I.”

He eventually tilts his head up and they stare at each other from across the desk. _What now?_ He doesn’t know. He came here, he apologized, and he means everything he’s said. Seems like the ball is in Eliott’s court, right?

There’s a thud next to them, and they startle a little, heads swiveling to the side to find a cleaning lady standing in the doorway. “Oh, sorry,” she says, vaguely, and she motions to backtrack and probably head to a different classroom, but Eliott is faster.

“That’s fine, we were just leaving.”

He grabs his winter coat from the backrest of the chair and he throws his messenger bag over his shoulder, and shuffles around to pick up the rest of his stuff. Some papers, his keys, his phone. Lucas watches him, and suddenly he wonders if Eliott noticed he stopped calling last night. To be fair he was forced to. After the fourth call or so he threw his phone against the wall and it shattered into pieces, so there is that.

Eliott smiles politely to the cleaning lady on his way out, and Lucas goes as far as giving a stiffy nod, before he follows him out in the vomit-green hall.

“Eliott,” he calls out as they walk down a stairwell. “Don’t be an asshole, just tell me what you want from me.”

His boyfriend is a couple of stairs ahead of him, and Lucas’ voice bounces back on the flat surfaces around them. Eliott stops and turns around. “When you have a problem you tell me, that’d be a good start, don’t you think?”

His tone’s stiff and Lucas can clearly tell he’s still upset. Which, you know, he gets on some level. It just sucks that it’s directed at him. Eliott lets out a frustrated hiss, shaking his head as he starts heading down again. “Dammit Lucas, I thought we were past this point in our relationship.”

Lucas hops down the last four stairs to the ground floor. “Fine, okay,” he says, earnest.

Eliott wants honesty? Good. He will choke with it. Lucas will recount him all the vexations he goes through on a daily basis, in excruciating details, all the mundane things he hates and the people who get on his nerves _oh so easily,_ and Eliott will have to make do with it because _he asked for it_.

They stride outside, in the cold, winter night, and it slaps Lucas right across the face. Eliott makes no effort to slow down and he has to nearly run to catch up on him. “I promise I won’t be a bitch about your episodes again,” he adds.

Eliott throws a cold glance in his direction, an eyebrow twitching in irritation. “You really set the bar very low for my expectations.”

“Then life can only be better from now on,” he shrugs, hoping to bring some casualness to that hell of a conversation, but it doesn’t work like that, even _he_ knows that. When they find themselves nearing a bus stop, at the corner of the street, he grabs Eliott by the arm. “Hey. Baby, wait.”

Okay maybe the pet name is a bit disloyal at the moment, but fuck that. They’ve been together for two years and a fucking half. They live together, they moved out from their neighboring flats, to be _together_. And last night… Yeah, last night was fucking awful. He spent most of it staring at the ceiling in their bedroom, tossing and turning because his little spoon bolted out with no fucking promise of return and he wanted to rip off his skin at the memory of them spiraling out of control.

He doesn’t want to deal with that again.

Eliott hasn’t yanked his arm away, which is a bit of a victory he guesses. “Come home. Please,” he says, looking him in the eye. He lets his gaze drop a little, falling onto the collar of Eliott’s shirt picking out from under his winter coat. “Idriss’ closet is really not for you.”

It earns him a scoff. “I knew you lied about the shirt,” Eliott retorts.

“It’s a good shirt on Idriss.”

“Whatever. Okay,” he mumbles. Lucas lets go of him and Eliott takes a couple of steps away to reach the bus stop. “But you better grab dinner on your way home, I have stuff to fetch from Idriss’.”

_Good_. Good. Okay. Nice.

“Not even an I love you?”, Lucas enquires. He knows he’s being pushy, but he thinks it’s okay.

Eliott doesn’t turn back. “I’m not entirely hating you anymore, make do with that for now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, hope you liked it 🧡🙏🏻  
> I'm @demaury on Tumblr, don't hesitate to come and say hi! 👋🏻❤️


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